Shift
by CaptainOzone
Summary: In which Danny's secret is revealed to the world before he ever steps foot in Amity Park…and before he ever meets Sam or Tucker. Pre-PP AU. Post-reveal. Rated for language.
1. Prologue: The Tower

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DP or any reference to pop culture/brand name/etc. made in this fic

**Author's Note**: I always loved stories in which Danny never met Sam or Tucker, and I was thinking one day, "why not have a little fun and twist this up a bit?" This fic will be very character-centric (i.e. there is very little action to speak of, save what you see in this prologue). Assume that everything that happened in the show still happened in this AU, with the exception of Sam and Tuck being present, of course. This prologue is a bit of an AU spin on "Reign Storm," which I've decided to set further down the canon timeline because reasons.

I will be attempting to update on a weekly/biweekly basis. Enjoy!

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**Prologue: The Tower**

Acidic green lightning split through the sky, the dark clouds above momentarily giving way to something unearthly and wrong.

_No, no, no_, Danny rambled to himself, struggling to pick himself up off the floor. Ectoplasm spluttered between gloved fingers, and as his opponent grabbed his white hair and shoved him back down, forcing him to kneel, to bow, he could hear Skulker's rockets whistling through the air below him, nearly in harmony with that of the howling wind. Through the grate beneath him, he saw them explode amongst a troop of skeleton ghosts that had been approaching the tower. Their bones shot like shrapnel into the fray and decapitated several more of their mindless companions.

Somewhere nearby, Dora roared in absolute fury as she tackled her brother to the ground, the force from her pounce causing the ground to tremble and the tower to shake. Frostbite's people snarled, Fright Night's steed shrieked, helicopters blazed by, ectoblasts flew, and shouts rang from every direction, but from the top of the device Technus had been manipulated to create, the one that was slowly but surely merging the Ghost Zone with the Human World, the one that could force all ghosts into servitude…

From the top of this tower, time seemed to move in slow motion, every detail as pure and clear as crystal.

_We're failing_, he thought belatedly as another bolt of spectral lightning struck and the clouds of both worlds churned. Another hard blast pummeled into his stomach, but he managed to struggle upright and return fire. There was no joy when it connected, and he threw himself forward, taking advantage of the small opening.

_We're losing_. There was an enticing pulse in the air, sweet and exhilarating. Energy crackled through the air, and even he could sense it now.

_There isn't enough time._

Jazz was sobbing, and his parents, struggling against their bonds and shouting into their gags. The equipment meant to disable the device laid in broken pieces across the platform, eerily illuminated by the green flashes of lightning.

_Not enough, not enough…_

Phantom didn't mean to Wail—he thought he was long past the point of having the energy to do so—but somehow, someway, he did, and his knees gave out. _Not now, _he told himself. Long claws dug into him, eliciting a gasp of pain. _Get up_. _Fight. _

He was pulled upright. The Ghost King leered in his face, eyes cold and mad with power. The glow from the Crown lit his pale, regal brow. "How disappointing," Dark mused. "They warned me of your greatness, Twice-born. 'Beware of _Phantom_,' they told me. 'Don't dare underestimate him,' they said. 'He is strong,' they insisted. Bah. _Pathetic_. They think you are more powerful because of your curse? No, it makes you _weak_. Look around you. The sight of yourfailure will greet you."

Of course he didn't do as he was told. Dim green eyes focused on the family trapped on the tower with him…their hopes lying in shatters at their feet. With no way to contact their human or ghost allies for backup, with no other way to save either ghosts or humans from enslavement, they had nothing left_, _and seeing them…his sister, his parents…their eyes wide with fear, their chests heaving…Danny wished…

The hands fisted into his jumpsuit began to burn. One wrenched themselves away from his chest and up to his throat, forcing him to turn his head and look the Ghost King in the eye. "You will obey!" Pariah Dark thundered.

Several ghosts, having bypassed the armies below, clambered onto the platform, some allies and others enemies. All powerful, prideful ghosts in their own right. Eyes vacant, they lowered themselves to a knee and awaited their King's command. "It begins," he hissed gleefully. "They come to _me_ now. Soon, even you will be mine, abomination! I will break you and make you _suffer_!" A smirk curled over his lips, and greedy eyes flickered away from him. "And I know where I shall start."

_No_.

Phantom spat a mouthful of ectoplasm and saliva straight into his face. Pariah Dark rubbed the glob away from his eyes and tossed him aside with a roar. He crashed into the center console, where the Soul Shredder and the Ring of Rage together were housed in a bubble of energy, and rolled over a few times before skidding to a stop.

The skies were nearly one now, the humming in his head nearly unbearable.

_No time, no time… _

Several more ghosts flitted onto the platform to stand behind Pariah, who stood glorifying in his victory. Laughing. He was _laughing _now.

_Cocky asshole. _

The Ghost King did not notice Phantom's eyes blazing. His arms trembled, hardly able to take his weight, and his breath rattled in his throat.

_I can't…I won't…_

Pain radiated from every major point in his body, but he got to his feet again and, summoning the very last of his energy, did the unexpected. Instead of attacking, or attempting to deflect the attacks of over three dozen powerful ghosts that had just been ordered against him, he launched himself forward.

_Only chance…_

Intangible hands shoved through the electrifying barriers, and quivering fingers wrapped themselves around the two artifacts.

"HALF BREEEEEEEED!"

His head was wrenched backwards, and he screamed, his throat tearing as another Wail, this one infused with power straight from his cold core, spilled from his lips. White overcame his vision, and the energy of the two items flooded into his body, more maddening, more shocking, more excruciating than anything he had ever experienced before. The Accident could not compare to this torture. All he knew was the feeling of the Soul Shredder's magic, each and every one of his fears screeching and tumbling through him at once, ripping at both heart and core, and the feeling of the ring…how one remained sane with _this_ in his possession, let alone the Crown of Fire on top of that…

The rapid thudding of the human heartbeats near him rang in his ears, the sensation of every possessed ghost's mind stabbing into his own, the whispers and cries for help... There was so much hatred, so much fear and pain to add upon his own…

He felt them approach him, as they had been ordered to, but they were repulsed away. Distantly, he could feel his suit melting and the ground beneath him rumbling, quaking. It seemed an eternity before something snapped. A crack of thunder erupted, and the stream of power whiplashed. He jerked away and collapsed, a broken blade and dead ring falling into his lap.

Silence.

A ragged gulp for air. Blurred vision. Heart thud-dud'ing, core spluttering, out of sync. A twitch. The tingling rush of invisibility, on and off, off and on. Eyes…open.

Blue sky.

He would have laughed, had he been capable. Everything felt raw, with the exception of his legs. He could not feel his legs. He couldn't move them. The smallest movement of his head was all it took for him to see that his form was destabilizing.

Bubbling.

Disintegrating.

It was almost funny, really.

A fuzzy form shoved itself into his field of vision. The orange was nearly blinding, and it was only followed by more colors, too bright for him to process.

The words coming from the form's mouth were shrill and all muddled, but the sound of it was so familiar, he strained to focus. "You idiot," she was now repeating. There were tears streaking down her face. "You _idiot_."

"Why?" Mom's face appeared beside his sister's. There was a large hand pressed into his chest and a sharp pinch right in the crook of his arm, but he wished he could focus on her face, silhouetted by the blinding sun—Earth's sun—and the spinning, spinning of helicopter blades. He wanted to tell her that the roaring in his ears was obnoxious and that he really, _really _wanted to fall asleep now.

For some reason, that felt more important than what he should have been attempting to say. It was too hard to say those things, far too hard.

But there was no time for speaking. There was no time for regrets. No time to apologize. He stared at the blue sky, at the three people surrounding him, and closed his eyes, at peace and grateful.

"Why did you _do _that?"

Tongue as heavy as several bricks, he slurred hoarsely, a weak smile twitching at the corners of his lips, "'Jus' me. 's me."

And just as the comforting blanket of unconsciousness took him into its embrace, a familiar flash of light crossed his eyes.

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_To Be Continued..._

Oz out


	2. The Things We Do

**AN**: Thank you to everyone who decided to give this DP rookie a chance! :D Since this fic's main focus is Danny, Sam, and Tucker's first meeting in this universe, this chapter is set a few weeks after the prologue. One day, I might write a fic expanding upon the battle and the events that precede and immediately follow it, but today is not that day. ;)

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**Chapter One: The Things We Do**

"Tucker! C'mon!"

A pitiful moan erupted from the lump on the bed, and Tucker rolled over, pulling his blankets up over his head.

Sam Manson, who had entered her friend's room as loudly and obnoxiously as she could, threw her hands up in the air. "For the love of—!" Picking up a stray shoe from his floor, she chucked it at him. When Tucker grunted at the impact, the girl smirked in satisfaction and maneuvered through his mess toward the window. "C'mon, Tucker," she attempted again, flinging open the curtains.

Once the room was filled with sunlight, the teenaged boy winced under his covers, curled into a tighter ball, and whined, "Ugh, Sam…"

"Get your lazy ass up out of bed! We gotta go!"

"But, _Saaaam,_ it's too _earl—_wait. Sam!" He yelped and scrambled upright, blinking his eyes rapidly. "How the hell did you get in here?!"

Sam quirked a brow and grinned as widely as the Cheshire cat. "This isn't the first time I've snuck into your room through the window. You know that."

The wide-eyed, confused look on Tucker's face was priceless, and unable to help herself, she started snickering and rolled her eyes. "Your mom let me in, you nimrod. Now, get _up_." She accentuated her command by hurling what she hoped was a semi-clean pair of Nike shorts at him. With the layer of crap on Tucker's floor…Well, let's just say Sam preferred not to think about it. He might have insisted there was an order to everything, but she had yet to be convinced. "We're going to be late."

For a moment, the blank, zombie-like expression remained, but after a few seconds of appraising her—obviously noting the bright, logoed t-shirt she wore—realization hit. With a grumble, Tucker rubbed his eyes and fumbled for his glasses. "I don't seem to recall ever actually agreeingto this, Sam."

"Aw, come on, it'll be fun_, _Tucker!" Sam consoled.

Tucker, who had been friends with Sam for long enough to feel no shame whatsoever in tumbling out of bed in only his PJ bottoms, grabbed the Nike shorts she threw at him and slowly rolled to his feet. "I wouldn't call waking up this early on a Saturday morning _fun_."

"Hey, it's not myfault you stay up all night online."

Tucker glowered, but it lacked heat. Of course she was right. "I certainly don't call spending my Saturday at the schoolvery fun either."

"Well, it's for a good cause," Sam said with a bright smile. "Suck it up."

"You're awfully cheerful this morning. Far too cheerful to be Goth."

Sam looked down at herself and snorted. She didn't look particularly Goth in her yellow shirt and purple gym shoes, but instead of retorting, she reasoned, "It's a nice day out, and we're going to be making a difference in Amity Park's diabetics' lives. What _isn't _there to smile about? If that's not enough for you, the volunteering will look good on your college resume, and look—" she displayed another brightly colored t-shirt, the words _Strides_: _Walk for Diabetes_ written across the front in large font "—I got you a free shirt."

He caught the shirt easily and made a show of surveying it. "You do know how to bribe a man, Sam. Pretty good deal," he admitted. Sam's smug grin made his eyes widen in mock-horror. "Oh, no," her friend bemoaned overdramatically. "I feel like I'm going to be drowning in free t-shirts by the end of the month."

With another roll of her eyes, Sam playfully shoved him through the bathroom door. "There are worse things. Now hurry up! Your mom's made those sausage links you like so much, and it's your own fault if they're cold when you finally show your face downstairs."

Despite his protests, she heard him pick up the pace, and she had to choke down a laugh. "The things I do for you, woman!" he cried.

_The things he does do for me_, Sam agreed fondly as she tightened her ponytail. The two teens were vastly different in almost every aspect, but even still, she could not have asked for a better friend. He put up with her eccentricities, her stubbornness, and strong views, and he accepted her for who she was—flaws and all. Despite his immaturity and goofiness, despite all his cheesy womanizing and geekiness, there was a surprising amount of sensitivity in him. He always seemed to know when she truly needed him. She supposed that's what happened when two people become as close as siblings: they just _know _these things.

This was one of those times. He knew there was another reason she was going to the Lions Club's _Strides_ walk today, and she was just so grateful he would be there to keep her sane…and to keep her from doing anything rash.

Her parents were running the thing, after all, and there'd be no escaping them.

They never really saw eye to eye—Sam and her parents. That didn't mean she didn't love them, of course, but they really were intolerableat the best of times. It didn't help that their Type-A personalities became even more pronounced whenever given a position of power, and since Jeremy Manson was President of Amity Park's Lions Club, it was sometimes difficult to work with him.

Sam learned to deal with it. For the most part, anyway. It was only recently that she discovered just how much she loved participating in community service, and after putting aside her more juvenile desire not be seen in public with her parents, she became more involved with the Club. It was the perfect outlet for her, and she was proud to be a part of such a beneficial organization. Her parents, too, were thrilled because, finally, their "Doom-and-Gloom" daughter appeared to actually be invested in something that they approved of.

Shocker.

To be utterly truthful, it was one of the very few things she and her parents actually shared—a passion for giving back to the community—even if…

Even if her mother had a funny way of showing it sometimes.

_Fuck the PTA_, Sam cursed suddenly, blowing her side-bangs out of her face and digging her dark plum-colored fingernails into her palms. _Sick, narrow-minded, disgusting…_ And to know her _mother_ had been the one who started it! Sam had been trying to forget about it, trying to put it aside, at least for a _little while,_ but it was like a pimple that just _wouldn't go away_. It still made her blood boil, and even though she had made the mature decision to try to make amends with her mother, to try to stitch the chasm back together, she would neverforget what had caused that chasm to form in the first place.

She almost had decided to skip the Lions Club event altogether, but if there was ever a time to start making peace offerings…

A sudden crash behind her made her jump. Tucker, now fully dressed, gave her a sheepish look. "Sorry," he apologized, picking up the book he'd elbowed off the empty fishbowl on his dresser.

"Dork," Sam mumbled, her mood noticeably sourer than it had been. "You ready?"

It took a moment for him to swipe his PDA off the only immaculate spot in his room: his bedside table, which was reserved for his gadgets alone. "Yeah."

Together, they made their way downstairs, where Mr. and Mrs. Foley sat at the kitchen table, absorbed in the morning news. Upon hearing them enter, Mr. Foley swiveled in his chair to give Tucker an incredulous stare. After alternating his gaze between the clock and the teenager multiple times over, he deadpanned, "Okay, who are you and what have you done to my son?"

"Ha ha, Dad," Tucker said sarcastically, slipping up to the counter to grab a plate. "Good morning to you too."

"Morning, dear," Mrs. Foley responded as she watched her son heap sausage and eggs onto his plate. "Sam? Did you want anything? We have some apples in the fridge and cereal in the pantry, if you haven't eaten."

Sam smiled at her thoughtfulness. "No thanks, Mrs. Foley. I had breakfast with my grandma this morning."

As Tucker slid onto a seat with his mountain of meat and immediately tucked in, Sam turned her attention to the TV. "Ghost Alert just finish?"

Mr. Foley nodded absently. "Nothing much to report. There were just a few wandering specters over the course of the night. No attacks."

"That's good," Sam breathed in relief.

Ever since the Shift, the city felt like it was perpetually holding its breath, peering over its shoulder. Paranoia and fear was palpable, and tensions were high. Everyone—from toddlers to seniors—seemed to be on the look-out for anything suspicious or…supernatural, but despite it all, despite the changes that had overcome their town since that fateful night, Sam couldn't help but feel grateful. Utterly grateful.

They had their lives, after all, thanks to _him_.

She'd heard of the ghost attacks in Chicago, and she'd heard of the Fentons. It intrigued her—all that they did and all that they fought—but it wasn't until the Ghost King when insane and tried to enslave the entire ghost and human races that she realized just how realit all was. And how dangerousthe objects of her fascination could be.

When Pariah Dark's attempt failed, something happened. The Fentons had explained it on national television—something about how the expulsion of ectoplasmic power had shifted the spectromagnetic field of the Ghost Zone, which ran "antiparallel and sideways" to the Earth's own magnetic field, causing barrier between the worlds to fluctuate.

Sam hadn't really understood the science behind it (not that she didn't try), but she—and everyone in Amity—had understood the consequences. As it turned out, due to the Shift, Amity Park was now the exact spot where the barrier was at its thinnest. Natural portals became a daily sight, and ghost attacks, a frighteningly increasing occurrence.

There had only been a few legitimate ghost attacks since the Shift, and Sam had been unlucky enough experience one at the school. It had been unlike anything she had ever felt before—the eerie chill that crept down her spine and the dread that consumed her gut and mind. And that had been _before _the pair of glowing green octopi had appeared. There had been no deaths (thank _God_), but there had been a few injuries, which was horrible enough.

"Yes," Mr. Foley agreed hesitantly. "I wouldn't get used to it. The Fentons were on again last night, and they said the ghosts are completely disoriented by the Shift. The smarter ones, the more powerful ones—they're hiding away in the Ghost Zone until they can adapt to the change (1)."

"Or they're just waiting for that Portal to find its new home. So that it can stabilize the natural portals or whatever (2)," Tuck said through a mouthful of food. "When arethey moving in, anyway?"

Mrs. Foley clucked a little. "Despite how eager Jack Fenton is to get up and going, their family is still recovering from the battle, and they've been working endlessly to help both Earth and the Ghost Zone since Pariah Dark's escape. Besides, I can't imagine they're making their arrangements very public, Tucker."

"They have enough publicity as it is and deserve _some_ privacy," Sam felt the need to point out. She hadn't meant to sound so bitter, but it certainly came out that way. Her scowl certainly didn't make her tone sound any less harsh, and when she saw that the commercial break was over and yet anothermention of interviews came from the peppy newscaster's mouth, Sam stood up. "Anyway, I bet they're moving as fast as they can. You nearly done, Tuck? My parents are going to kill me if we're late."

After shoveling the last few forkfuls into his mouth and taking care of his dishes, Tucker was following Sam out the door and shouting goodbyes to his parents, who, despite the obvious concern she felt emanating from them, had not pushed her any further.

It's what she loved about them.

Tucker, however, was another matter entirely, and even if she sometimes wished he'd get out of her head, it's what she loved about _him_.

"You know, it'll be alright."

Sam sighed and picked at her fingernail polish. "It was a big fight we had, Tuck," she said without preamble. "Bigger than any we've had before, and this time, both sides said things that we regret—things that aren't entirely forgivable just yet—and the fact it went so public…"

Tucker winced in sympathy. It had been an extremely tough for Sam since the Shift had occurred and the Fentons announced their move. Her house had been divided, shouting matches reigning supreme. She'd come to him a mess more than once, and the things she had told him about what was happening had been enough for him to admit _he _wanted to scream and punch something.

What he did was better, and Sam would never forget it. Though he had been little more leery on the entire subject at first, he had ultimately agreed with her and had helped her fight back against the people of Amity who were too scared, too judgmental, too ignorant to see the truth.

Because where Pamela Manson and her kind had seen nothing but a threat to Casper High's student body, something that had no business getting anywhere near "normal children," Sam had seen something else entirely. She had wanted to put a stop to it, and what had begun as a family feud had soon spiraled out of control and into a citywide ethical and political battle. The Guys in White, an organization wiped out by the Fentons for their unlawful practices just last year, still held some sway over opinions, which made it even more difficult to make her voice heard.

But basically, everyone who was anyone knew about it.

In all honesty, Sam harbored the childish hope that not everyoneknew about it. She truly hoped that the one person who should have known about it actually had no clue about it. He'd been through enough already without having this thrown at him.

"I know, I know," Tucker soothed. "Your mom's getting better, though, right? I mean, she's coming today, so…she's not so… hostile about it anymore, is she?"

"She's…still a little frosty toward Dad, Grandma, and I," Sam admitted, "but at least she's stopped spewing all that prejudiced anti-ghost crap. The silent treatment's abating a bit lately, too, because I think she's realizing that there's nothing more she can do. The Fentons are moving in whether she likes it or not, and after the last attack, she _knows _we need their help now. There're no more arguments she can make. Even still, I know she's waiting for it all to come bite us all in the ass."

Tuck drew up short. "You don't think that, do you? That it'll come bite us in the ass?"

Sam shook her head fervently. "Of course not! No, I stand by what I said all along."

She wasn't the only one who thought so. The ghost boy had always been a hot topic of debate, but now…_everything _had changed, especially in the city that would soon house him. What it came down to? Phantom might have been powerful enough to withstand the influence of two ancient artifacts of Ghost Zone lore and destroy Pariah Dark, he might have been the one who accidentally _caused _the Shift, and he might have over hundred lethal enemies and a sketchy track record, but underneath it all, he—he was also a human being_._ Not a monster, not a poltergeist. A _teenager_.

And he deserved everyright to go to a public school if he so chose. Sam, Tucker, and a hell of a lot of other students, faculty members, and citizens weren't about to let people like Pamela Manson and her PTA cronies deny him that right, not with the sickeningly prejudiced reasons they were giving. Not after all that he had sacrificed.

Despite everything, despite the worldwide revelation of his secret the moment he defeated Dark, saved his family's lives, and prevented the entire human race from being dominated by brainwashed ghosts, Daniel Fenton obviously wanted to live as normal of a life as possible. Even if there are some dangers involved with him attending Casper High—Sam had to concede to that point—and even if the very mention of his name was beginning to make her internally wince, it wasn't right to deny him that.

"Besides," Sam added as they rounded the corner, "once the Fentons move in…Well, surely she'll see that having them here will make things infinitely better. Safer, too, for all of us."

Whatever Tucker was going to say was drowned out by the sudden shriek that emitted from a coffee shop across the way. The pair of teens leapt out of their skins and whirled toward the noise, just in time to see a crazed woman, still screaming bloody murder, crash through the shop door and sprint for her life. A shimmer of an indistinct form, recognizable as one of the harmless ghouls (3) that liked to float around lately, phased through the glass soon after her emergence from the shop and continued on its merry way.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to slow her racing heart, Sam ignored the ghoul's echoing moans and wheezes and glared in the direction of the mindless woman, who had, quite honestly, freaked out over _nothing_. With a roll of her eyes and a mutter of "idiot" on her lips, she turned back around to find Tucker chuckling. Her narrowed violet eyes _dared _him to make a joke about how violently she had reacted to the woman's sudden scream.

He was smart and did the right thing. Swallowing his laughter, he smirked knowingly and instead responded to her previous comment. "Safer? Well, it's not like it can get any worse than it is already. Though I admit—" his eyes trailed in the direction the woman had run "—this town definitely could use a little Fenton insanity about now. It's probably the only brand of insanity strong enough to stand it's own against people like her."

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(1) Detail inspired by "Intangible Trust," an incomplete fic by DP-shrine-in-closet-girl, which sees ghosts being disoriented by the movement of the Fenton Portal

(2) Headcanon inspired by a bunch of authors, I'm sure, but the one I was thinking of in particular while writing this was HappyLeifEricsonDay's "Candlelight."

(3) A nod to the Weasley's ghoul in the _Harry Potter_ series

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_To Be Continued..._

Oz out


	3. The Consequences

**AN: **Another chapter dedicated to setting up the AU, this time from Danny's POV. And thank you, everyone who's read, reviewed, favorite'd, and/or followed!

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**Chapter Two: The Consequences**

"That is _insane_," Danny Fenton groaned, flopping into his seat and digging his knuckles into his eyes. It was far too early to be up on a Saturday. He might not usually get a lot of sleep anyway—what, with the ghosts' insistence on attacking in the wee hours of the morning—but since he was still recovering, much to his displeasure, sleep was proving to be the cure-all to the massive amount of energy he'd drained pulling the stunt he did. Well, that and concentrated doses of ectoplasm, but that was beside the point. He was still pretty tired, and all he really wanted was to crawl back into bed. "Why are you showing me this, Jazz?"

His sister had that irritatingly smug look on her face, and withdrawing her tablet from under his nose, she began to tap away. "It's good for you."

"In what world is this good for me_?_" he protested. "I stay away from that stuff for a reason!"

"See! That you're still blushing like a tomato proves to me that you're not letting the attention go to your head. Keeps you humble."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Been there, done that, Jazz. Honestly, I don't need to see any more crazy fan theories about me or my love life, which—if they were smart enough to connect "constant ghost attacks" with "lack of free time"—_is nonexiste—_"

"Ugh!" Jazz interrupted, flinching violently and exiting from whatever webpage she'd stumbled upon. With a crinkled nose, she shook her head and flung the tablet into her bag as though it were poisonous. "Oh my God, I can_not _un-see that. That was worse than when they thought _we _were dating."

Danny was very sure he didn't want to know (because there was _nothing_ worse than hearing his parents yelling at his sister for having what they thought was a romantic relationship with the ghost boy), and he started to guffaw. It pleased him that it no longer hurt to do so. "I think my point has been made."

Shuddering, Jazz ignored him and groaned, "Where's Mom and Dad already? They said they'd be right out."

Danny shrugged, and standing up, he stuck his head through the roof of the GAV to take a quick peek toward the new house, which they, unbeknownst to most people, had almost completely moved into just the day before. Maddie Fenton, naturally, happened to coming out the door the very moment he turned intangible, and as Jazz gave him a warning smack from below, his mother scolded, "Daniel James Fenton! What did I tell you about using your powers until your father and I gave you the clear?"

"To not to," he mumbled sullenly.

There were some definite perks to having his parents know his secret now, but this—their cautiousness, their lack of faith in his judgment where it concerned his health—was not one of those perks. No doubt Jazz told them of the real reasons behind a few of his collapses at school, and anyone with eyes had deduced where all the gashes, bruises, and burns came from by now. Sure, fine, he pushed himself a _little _too far every now and then, but he did know his body and his limits better than anyone.

And if he was being honest with himself, he'd had these powers for so long it felt wrong not to use them. It was stifling to stay so grounded, to ignore that constant cold pulse in his chest. He knew they were concerned (and for good reason), and he knew that they were helping (_he_ certainly never knew that it was only thanks to his human side that his ghost half hadn't starved yet). However, what he knew and what he accepted about their fussing didn't prevent him from being mildly irritated by it all.

"But I'm _fine_, Mom," he insisted. "Really. I feel great. I stayed awake all throughout yesterday and helped pack and move! No naps, no overwhelming hunger, no random power glitches. If I'm well enough to actually go outside and interact with the world, surely I can—"

Her _don't-argue-with-me-Daniel-and-get-your-head-back-in-the-RV _glare was easily more terrifying than Plasmius' "scary eyes," so he immediately did as her eyes demanded.

As he sat back down and sighed into his lap, Jazz's hand came to rest on his shoulder for a brief second. After flicking his gaze to meet hers, she smiled lightly, and he felt a flush of warmth at her obvious support. She might be annoying, she might be awful with a Fenton Thermos, but she'd been there through it all. She'd been the one who nursed his wounds, the one who covered for him, the one who always knew what to say to lift his spirits. Even now, she knew how best to encourage him, and a shudder possessed him at the thought of where—and what—he'd be if he hadn't had her there to help him after the Accident and now, after the Shift.

When Maddie climbed into the passenger side's front seat and turned to address her son, her expression softened to one of sympathy and understanding. "I know you're impatient to get back to your old self, sweetheart, but we're still learning about you—all of us, even Sleetjaw. He knows more about halfa physiology than anyone, and if he's concerned, I'm even more so. I just don't want to take any unnecessary risks."

A remnant of delayed fear swooped through Danny's gut, only to dissolve into the same numb disbelief he felt when he first woke up and saw his parents debating with _Vlad _(of all people), Jazz, Frostbite, and Sleetjaw, who was the Far Frozen's Head Healer, about whether or not it was safe to give him higher doses of Ecto-Dejecto. It was so weird hearing the word "halfa" falling so naturally from his mom's lips. He still wasn't used to it, and he certainly knew that though his parents seemed at ease talking about it, seeingit was another thing entirely. If Danny was honest with himself, he had never felt greater discomfort than having his parents witness just how wacky a malfunctioning ghost-side could be.

"I know, I'm sorry, Mom. I just…" Danny felt a flush creep to his cheeks, and he bit off what he was going to say, turning to the window.

His mom's eyes remained on him. "What were you going to say, dear?" she asked gently. Danny wasn't so thick that he couldn't hear the strain in her voice, and internally he winced, knowing that she and Dad were trying to reconnect with him, to do whatever they could to integrate his new life into theirs.

For this to work, however, Danny had to meet them halfway, no matter how awkward it felt to him.

"I want to fly," he admitted, turning back to Mom and rubbing the back of his neck. "I miss it, but…it's not just that. I've been thinking…and I really need to learn the city."

"And you'll have time to," she promised. He didn't fight her when she reached over her seat to brush his bangs from his eyes. "I didn't realize you were so eager to get out there. I thought you wanted to stay out of public eye as long as possible."

Danny jerked in his seat. In truth, he never said so in as many words, but he shouldn't have put it past his mother to interpret his growing reluctance to join in family conversations about the new school and about the new house and about the new city. He was _Danny Phantom_, Danny often felt the need to remind himself_. Phantom doesn't get afraid_.

_But Phantom certainly had been afraid on the top of that tower_, _hadn't he?_ a part of him whispered.

"What gives you that idea?" he scoffed defensively. "I've already done a few phone interviews, haven't I?"

Jazz and his mother exchanged a sideways glance. "And that was from the safety and privacy of home," his sister said. "That's different, and you know it. You don't have to pull the Phantom bravado on us, Danny. It's okay to be nervous about this."

"But we're facing this together, sweetie," Mom interjected, a smile gracing her lips. "Every step of the way. It'll be alright. Principal Ishiyama and Mr. Lancer seem like very nice people, and when you start school this week—"

"Mom, you saw how the people reacted back home," Danny pointed out shrewdly.

"Yes, and you handled it all with grace and dignity."

"But that was from the safety and privacy of home," he echoed Jazz, leaning his head back and staring up at the ceiling. "They will only see me as Phantom. _Just _Phantom. I didn't want this to happen. I mean, I'm happy that _you _know now—it was stupid of me to keep it from you in the first place—but the rest of the world? No. Not them too. I didn't realize…the consequences." Suddenly he felt horribly selfish. His parents and sister had been the ones dealing with the brunt of those consequences while he was holed up inside, and here he was, complaining about it. "It was… so much easier when I was a fly on the wall, Mom."

Mom was silent for a moment. "I won't lie to you, Danny. It _won't_ be easy—at least, not at the beginning—but if I know anything, I know that you will overcome whatever trials face you now. Just remember who you are and why you do what you do, and don't let what they say bother you."

_It's not what they will say. Well, yes, kind of, but not really_, Danny wanted to explain, but it was just easier for him to swallow roughly and nod in agreement. The silent nod wasn't enough for his mom, judging by the concern in her eyes, but he was saved from further questioning by the clumsy appearance of his father.

"Sorry! Sorry!" he boomed. "I didn't mean to keep you guys waiting."

Jazz, who had been nodding in genuineagreement with their mother's words, shifted in her seat and automatically reached for her seatbelt. "What held you up, Dad?"

"Oh, that Thunder fellow called the Fenton Ghost Line again," Dad said nonchalantly, placing the key in the ignition and starting the GAV. Dark teal eyes fixated on Danny through the rear-view mirror. "He's persistent, that's for sure. He really wants that interview, Danny boy. I told him it was all up to you."

Danny ran his hand through his hair. This Lance Thunder's frequent calls, which were far more frequent than Tiffany Snow's from Channel 11 or Henry Lloyd's from Channel 4, were admittedly starting to grate on his nerves. He and his parents received some offers from the agents of some _big, _world-renowned names, too, but they were politely declined for the time being. While he was recovering, his parents might have held multiple press conferences that were aired across the nation, but that did not mean that _he_ was ready for anything like that. He wasn't even sure he was ready for anything local.

Of course, if someone were to post any interview he did on the local channels on YouTube, it didn't really matter anyway. There would probably have a few thousand hits within an hour—he'd heard that the grainy footage of the battle and of his transformation was already record-breaking—but he didn't want to think about that.

"There's no excuse not to anymore," he admitted. "There are probably some things I need to say publically before we start at Casper High."

His dad beamed at him. "Good sport."

"Are you sure, Danny?" Mom's brow puckered, and the tiny frown on her face deepened. "If you're feeling pressured…You don't have to do anything you don't feel comfortable with."

_As tempting as that is…_ Unease crept up his spine, but slowly, he said, "I might never be comfortable with it, but I need to _learn _to be. I've got to accept what happened, and I can't do that by cowering away inside."

For a moment, she studied him closely. "Alright." Her wariness and protectiveness did not necessarily hide the hint of pride in her voice. "You can call him back after we get everything set up at the school. Before the rest of our furniture and lab equipment is delivered, preferably. Once people recognize the Ghost Assault Vehicle and see the moving truck, we're likely to have visitors."

"That's a nice word for 'paparazzi' and 'rabid fans,'" Danny quipped darkly under his breath.

His comment was so quiet that not even Jazz heard his words, but she'd always had this annoying ability to latch onto his moods. It was probably an "older sister" thing. "Yeah, and we have to try to make a good impression on them _before _they realize what bad neighbors we are," she joked, nudging her brother with her shoulder.

"We aren't bad neighbors, Jasmine!"

Jazz's attempt worked, and Danny snorted. He shared a loaded look with his sister, who deadpanned, "In the last two years, we broke thirteen windows, Mom. Explosions went off day and night. We sucked the whole block into a parallel dimension not once but _twice_."

Snickering, Danny added, "Ah, man, do you remember how many times wayward experiments gooped the Millers' cats? I think I lost count after eight."

"Well, I guess it depended on which cat it was."

"Riiiiight. Oh, then there was the block party incident—"

"That's enough," their mother scolded, a hint of a smile in her voice. "You've made your point."

Dad, however, was chortling in amusement. "That was good fun—rounding up those malicious hotdogs and burgers."

"Malicious?" Danny repeated incredulously. "They wanted to form a gang and reign over all the condiments. They were so stupid they were harmless!"

"Oh, yes, so stupid that it took all four of us to contain the hysteria."

"If I remember correctly, Jazz," he mused, "you were the one who shrieked and ran in the opposite direction whenever one of them made any sudden movements, so I'd amend that to 'all _three _of us.'"

Jazz spluttered for a moment before smirking. "At least I wasn't the one who dropped the Thermos and let those we caught back out again!"

"That was hardly—"

"Hey!" Dad exclaimed, interrupting any retort Danny could sling back at Jazz. "Wasn't that the first time we fought together, Danno?"

The question took him aback. It had been a random Saturday, truly, and it had been an insignificant battle, as far as ghost attacks went. Even so, the escapees had been so slippery, so quick and jumpy, that the entire Fenton family had been having far too much fun laughing at each other to really realize that Danny had joined the block party as Phantom.

They didn't know it, but it was the first time he truly felt his parents saw Phantom as more than a ghost. It was this little skirmish he considered the birth of their alliance—or rather, what _had been_ their alliance before they knew he was their son. He hadn't expected anyone else to realize the significance of that day, and he most certainly hadn't expected his father to be the one to recognize it for what it was.

"Yeah, Dad," Danny said. "It was."

The shift of the mood in the GAV was almost palpable. "It's so obvious now," his father breathed, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry."

The apology was automatic. There was still so much they had yet to talk about together as a family, but that didn't mean his parents hadn't been trying to merge their memories of his two halves individually, often making connections and beating themselves up for missing it in the first place. It made Danny feel awful because it _was _his fault for keeping the secret for so long in the first place.

As always, Mom was quick to reassure him. "Stop apologizing, Danny. There is nothing to be sorry for. We've been through this."

And so they had, multiple times over. Tears had been shed, voices had been raised, and the blame game had been played. Lately, though, an accepting calm had settled over their family, but it would take some time for everyone to forgive themselves for all the lies, the regrets…the missed opportunities.

"I know," Danny mumbled.

Mom smiled and turned to Dad. "While we're on the topic…your son was using intangibility before we left the house."

His father, surprisingly, grinned and asked with a great amount of enthusiasm, "How'd it feel, Danny-boy?"

Despite himself, he grinned back. "Normal. Completely normal. I didn't even think."

"No wooziness?"

"Nope."

"That's good," Jack said. "We'll have to call Sleetjaw to help us with some more tests when we get home. That should give us a better idea about when you'll be good as new! You think you can transform this time?"

Another quick thrill raced through him at the casual use of 'transform.' It was still surreal. "Without disintegrating or melting a little?" he asked bluntly. He pretended not to notice his mother's wince and paused for a second, focusing on the fluctuation of the ever-present cold within. It was as steady as the beat of his heart. He had known it subconsciously, but it was great to feel the proof all the same. "Yeah, I know I can."

His glee was easily transparent. "Don't get too excited just yet, bud," Dad warned. "It may be like an old muscle. We might need to…exercise and drill your ghost half to get it back into shape."

He opened his mouth but caught sight of his sister's and his mother's identical expressions. "Fair enough," Danny relented reluctantly, folding his arms and peering out the window.

It was then that he realized that, up until this moment, he'd been pointedly avoiding the windows. Transfixed, he stared at the people passing by, some openly gawking at the Fenton RV as it zoomed by. Fear coiled in his stomach whenever he caught and held the eyes of a stranger through the dark-tinted glass, but he could not bring himself to look away.

Dad pulled into Casper High not even moments later.

If he'd been nervous before, it was nothing compared to now. It had never felt so _real_, and the reality of it all hit him at once. They were in Amity Park now. They had moved. They were going to meet the head faculty of his new school. The procrastinator in him had been putting off the realization, the truth, of how close the deadline was, and now that it was here, he was very nearly panicking. He'd been grasping at threads, at any and every distraction, and he realized just how much he'd been manipulating his own perception of what was coming.

And this was just a meeting with two strangers. What was going to happen when he agreed to that interview? What about _Monday_? If he always thought of high school as a piranha's den, what the hell was it going to be _now_?

_Oh, God, I'm so not ready for this_. _Why did I do this? Why didn't I actually consider online classes or home tutoring when Mom and Dad suggested it? Why did I want to try to be normal? I already know I'm a freak. I don't need to be reminded of it every single day. I don't…_

"What do you think is happening here today?" Jazz mused, interrupting his internal rambling. Danny followed his sister's gaze. A few cars were parked near the outdoor track. Yellow-shirted people unloaded trunks and hauled banners and coolers across the parking lot.

"Looks like a charity event, I believe, Jazz." Mom said, watching the volunteers. "Lions Club. I think it was mentioned on the phone. Oh, not here, Jack. Mr. Lancer said to just park in the back lot. It's closer to where they want us to install the ghost shield. We'll walk around to the office."

As his father recklessly pulled into three parking spaces, Danny remained motionless, his gaze unseeingly fixated on the white, blocky building. The American flag flapped weakly in the breeze, just at the corner over there. Jazz had to nudge him in order to get him to move. Stiffly, he gathered his courage and followed her out of the RV.

"You ready?" Mom asked, indigo eyes flicking between her children.

Jazz, ever the studious and eager student, bobbed her head happily, but Danny faked a smile and said, "As I'll ever be."

* * *

_**Edit: _I am so sorry about the lack of spaces between words sometimes. It is super annoying, but even after I edit some out, I either find some I missed or more seem to appear from nowhere. :/

_To Be Continued..._

_Oz out._


	4. The Stipulations

**AN**: Happy 4th of July! I decided to post a chapter a day earlier than usual because of the holiday. I hope all my American readers enjoy the fireworks and BBQs/picnics! :D

About this chapter: I can't pretend I know much of anything about education and all the background stuff that goes on when enrolling high school students (_especially _ones with a situation as unique as Danny's), but I did my best to make this as plausible as possible in this little AU of mine. If there's anything glaringly wrong, do let me know. Probably not much I can do to change it for the purpose of this fic, but I'd like to learn. :) Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Three: The Stipulations**

A burst of cool air hit Danny's face as his mother pushed open the door. Only one woman sat behind the desk. Blandly, she raised her gaze at the sound of the door closing and did a double take upon recognizing them, her magnified eyes widening to almost comical proportions when they landed on him.

Danny pretended to survey the office lobby. He knew the one at his other school far too well, and there was little doubt he'd have to get to know this one too. The supply of raven paraphernalia in the room was endless, and the sense of school spirit, overkill. In fact, the longer he looked, the more suffocating and overwhelming the…_red-ness_ of it all became. Jazz was probably reveling in it.

_Deep breaths, Danny_. Dad placed a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up momentarily to exchange a smile with him. _It'll be fine._

"Hello," Mom said in a cheery tone. "We're here to see the principal."

The brunette bounded upright, squeaking, "Yes, of course. Let me inform her you're here."

She returned far too soon for Danny's taste, and at her side stood a short, pristine Asian woman and a middle-aged balding man. They both smiled welcomingly enough, and Danny, though still nervous, relaxed a little when he saw them turn their attention to his _parents_ first.

"You must be Maddie and Jack Fenton," the woman said warmly, offering her hand. "Welcome to Amity Park. I'm Kim Ishiyama—" she swept an arm toward her male companion "—and I believe you have already been acquainted with Edward Lancer on the phone."

Mom and Dad smiled, and each shook her hand, followed by Mr. Lancer's. "Thank you. It is great to be here, finally."

"It's a far cry from Chicago, I'm sure, but we are certainly glad to have you here." Only then did the woman turn her gaze to Danny and Jazz. "And these must be your children?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mom said proudly. "These are Jasmine and Daniel."

"Hello, Jasmine. Daniel. It's great to meet you."

He knew the power of a first handshake, and he did not break eye contact while greeting them. Vaguely, he realized that neither of them reacted to the slight chill in his touch and made no sign that they knew his true nature, but despite their sincere and open expressions, he was self-conscious enough to get the distinct impression they were studying him quite closely anyway. Mr. Lancer's pale hazel eyes pierced straight through him, analyzing, reading, and understanding_. _He was one of those teachers, Danny knew instinctively, who was _born _to teach, one who could read students as easily as he could a classic novel. For some reason, instead of intimidating him, as other teachers had in the past, Lancer seemed…there was something there that made Danny believe that this man was one he could trust implicitly. The tension unknotted in his stomach, and with a shy smile on his face, he echoed Jazz and said politely to both of them, "It's nice to meet you, too."

"Please, let's take this to my office," Ishiyama offered. "I'm sure you have a busy few days ahead of you, and we don't want to take up too much of your time."

"Oh, don't think that!" Dad reassured as they fell into step behind the two faculty members. "Setting up ghost shields for the school and taking care of the kids' school stuff is infinitely more fun than unpacking."

Without thinking, Danny chuckled and muttered under his breath, "You're only saying that because the lab equipment's not here yet."

Jazz gave him a stern look and elbowed him in the ribs. Mr. Lancer, who was nearest the siblings as they entered the office, quirked an eyebrow at the interaction but made no comment. He didn't necessarily have to.

Ishiyama closed the door behind them and retreated behind her desk. "I think," she said, taking a seat and intertwining her fingers as the Fentons followed in suit, "before we start, on behalf of the faculty and student body, I need to thank all of you for the sacrifices you made to be here. Especially you, Daniel."

He shuffled, cheeks burning. "Danny," he corrected, a knee-jerk reaction.

"Well, then, thank you, Danny."

His neck felt hot now too. "It was a mixture of my own stupidity and some really, _really _dumb luck," he replied modestly. Guiltily, too, for had it not been for him and his thoughtlessness, the Shift would not have occurred and the people of Amity would not be facing the ghost threat at all. "There's no need to thank me. Really."

For the first time, the principal lost her professional front and stared. Mr. Lancer was the one who responded. "I believe it was Seneca who once wrote 'Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity,'" he mused, eyes twinkling. "Whatever it might have been, we are grateful, and I am really glad to see that you and your family suffered no permanent injury."

Despite himself, the part of him that was undeniably Phantom, the part that protected him from further embarrassment, slipped out. "I certainly gave it my best shot, though," he joked, smiling crookedly.

Before Mom could so much send him a sharp _behave yourself _or a pleading _don't joke about things like that, Danny_, Dad said, "Yeah, Danny-boy's still not tip-top, but he's doing a lot better."

Ishiyama looked concerned. "If you do not think—"

"I'll definitely be ready to start on Monday," Danny interrupted. Realizing how forceful he sounded, he grimaced lightly, rubbed his neck, and stuttered, "I mean…I realize that I—my...circumstances made it very difficult for you." This was a bit of an understatement. Despite the itty-bitty loophole in the Federal Anti-Ecto Control Act that prevented him from being prosecuted by the government and despite all the work being put into revising the unconstitutional act since the GIW was put down, there had still been uproar. His family had tried to downplay it, to keep him from listening in on the news whenever he was awake, but he knew. He knew full well what that Manson woman had said and done, and he also knew the anti-ghost sentiment was not going to go away overnight. "And I realize that there…are—um…"

"Some stipulations," Jazz supplemented. Her eyes flashed angrily, and Danny knew she was thinking about the board and PTA too.

Mom nodded. "We have already discussed the necessity of the ectoplasm-suppression band." She dug around in her bag, pulled out the metal bracelet, and placed it on the desk. "We have yet to see if it works, due to Danny's injuries, but we're confident it will meet your expectations, and we fully understand the consequences of falsifying the proof of its functionality. Danny will bring you a copy of the necessary data on Monday."

Danny couldn't help but scowl at the piece of metal as his mother spoke. It had been a massive blow to his pride to have to agree to wear it, but the school's "no weapon" policy made it a little difficult for him to argue, considering the world now knew he was a bit walking weapon himself. In the end, his desperate desire to live as normally as possible overrode his complete aversion to the thing, which was, really, not so bad in a certain sense. It was the _principle _of the thing that bothered him so much, but it was a necessary evil, mandated by the higher-ups and the community. The unobtrusive, charcoal grey band was designed to suppress his offensive powers, mainly his control of ectoplasm and some of his cryokinesis, but theoretically, he should still be able to morph and fly, go invisible and intangible, and sense ghosts. Grudgingly, Danny had to admit that, if it worked, those few powers were all he needed to initially respond to a ghost threat and protect himself or others, and since it could be easily removed at his discretion, there was very little for him to work with.

Not that he and his family didn't try.

He missed most of what had been said on the topic of the band or whatever the hell else they were saying about the stack of papers in front of the principal. Something about reporters on the school grounds and police action, maybe? By the time he looked up from the thing, Ishiyama was assuring, "Outside of the band, there are far fewer stipulations, as you say, than you might fear. Danny will be treated, respected, and disciplined as any other student would be." Addressing him personally, she added, "In regards to the band itself, you will be allowed to leave your class and remove it if a ghost were to attack, as I'm sure your parents have discussed with you, but should you abuse this privilege, in any way, you will be appropriately reprimanded and possibly dismissed from the school, depending on the severity of the situation."

This was nothing he hadn't expected, and a premature rush of relief bubbled in him, making him feel more at ease than he had all morning.

"However…"

All of his optimism came crashing down immediately, and a frigid block of ice dropped into his gut.

"There is one thing we need to talk about in particular. We have made the unanimous decision to permit you from participating in any sports, and we have special permission to overlook your Physical Education requirements, owing to your—"

_Oh, hell no._

"My powers?" Danny questioned frostily, crossing his arms.

Ishiyama looked taken aback by his tone. "Please understand. We had very little information about your abilities, and even with the information we have now from your parents, we are forced to assume that your powers have made a positive effect on your human strength, agility, and speed, which gives you an unfair advantage over your peers."

Danny went silent, and after appraising him for a moment, she continued, "Extracurricular activities of an academic and social nature, of course, are permitted, so long as—"

"I don't cheat?" Danny finished bluntly again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "With all due respect, Principal Ishiyama, I can't deny that my powers don't affect my human side, and it's not as though I was planning to join any sports or activities anyway, but I hardly see how I'm going to be treated or respected as my peers are if you're already—" he floundered for words that were less harsh than the ones he meant to say "—insinuating I'll use my powers to _cheat._"

"Mr. Fenton…"

When he saw her puffing up like a peacock, a superior expression he'd seen only too often in the eyes of his other teachers flashing in her own, he couldn't even allow her to gather her thoughts. "Have you seen my transcripts? Talked to my old teachers? I'm sure they had plenty to say, though I think the sudden plummet to straight Cs and all the disciplinary reports after eighth grade speak for themselves."

"Danny-boy…" Dad sighed.

_"Inviso-Bill" has had enough of this crap, Dad, _he almost wished he could say.

"…I don't think…"

He tuned his father out. Jazz had silently reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. He almost slipped his hand from hers, far too frustrated and discomfited to have to deal with her pity right now, but the gentle touch was far more effective than his dad's words could ever be_. _His anger cooled, and he sighed.

_All I want is to prove myself before I'm judged. Is that too much to ask?_

"I—I'm sorry," he muttered aloud. Exhaustion hit suddenly, and he rubbed his eyes and made a genuine effort to appear apologetic, though he really wasn't sorry at all. "I should be grateful you're letting me step foot in this school at all."

Lancer, looking unfazed by his outburst, mildly took over for Ishiyama. "It was never our intention to make any insinuations, Mr. Fenton. Between the PTA's demands, the superintendent and district board, and the Illinois State Board of Education, the compromise we reached is most likely not the most preferable, but it is what was agreed upon. It does not help that this compromise is difficult to discuss."

Mom squeezed Danny's knee gently. "We understand, right, Danny?"

This was not turning out very well, Danny decided. He inhaled slowly and nodded, though he was beginning to resent that he had practically left his fate in the hands of the higher-ups. It never particularly bothered him before, but to be fair, he and his family had been more concerned about his ghost form's destabilization, the resulting effects on his human half, and the consequences of the battle than they had been about setting up meetings to debate with bureaucrats for the right to his fate.

It was a matter of sucky circumstances and timing, which was practically the definition of his life post-the-Accident. The only way he survived the past year was developing the motto: might as well suck it up today and look forward to a better tomorrow.

He had to remember that it could have been worse. Far worse, had not others stood up for him. Looking up at Lancer from under his bangs, Danny wondered if the teacher was one such person, and for the second time that day, he felt a prick of shame for his selfishness.

"I'll have one less class," Danny finally said, and the tension in the room noticeably dissipated. "What will I be doing in the place of gym?"

Ishiyama took the opportunity to slide two sheets of paper across the desk toward him and Jazz. "These will be your class schedules for the year. You'll be pleased to know, Jasmine, that we were able to put you in every AP class you requested. I know that was a cause of concern earlier, but it all worked out. There are some notes attached from your teachers about the material you missed the first few weeks of school."

"I'm glad! Thank you!" Jazz said, teal eyes scanning over her schedule. She was obviously already committing it to memory.

"Daniel, to answer your question, you'll have a study hall during your gym period."

Danny, who had been staring at the tiny printed letters that said as such on his schedule, looked up. "Really?" he asked, cautious hope filling him.

"You will be able to use the study hall to visit your teachers for extra help if you miss a class or sit in my homeroom to do homework," Lancer said. "It was your parents' idea, and we agreed it was the best course of action."

Dazed, Danny flitted his gaze to his mother and father. By way of explanation, Mom said, "You do need to pull your grades up. We can't stop you from ghost-hunting—" Danny's smile broadened at her words; it wasn't the first time she acknowledged how much it meant to him (the word "obsession" never once passed her lips), but he didn't think it would ever _not_ matter "—but we can do this. We know you can do better this year…now that we know how to help you."

"I _can_ do better," he murmured to himself, eyes brightening. An unexpected turn of events, this, and gratitude and awed disbelief blossomed in him. Amazing how the smallest thing…he wasn't about to admit just how hard his freshman year had been on him. It wasn't as though there were words enough to describe just how hard it had been, but even if there were words…

Later, Jazz would inadvertently reveal that his reaction gave it all away anyway.

In that moment, though, all plans he'd previously had to press that they _give him no special treatment _flew out the window. This small break suddenly meant everything—it was a chance, a chance to make something more of Danny_ Fenton _as opposed to Danny _Phantom; _he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be given a chance—and he scanned the paper in front of him again, just to be assured it wasn't a trick. "Mom, Dad, why didn't you tell me about this? Jazz…?" Without waiting for an answer or a response from any of them, he turned to the faculty members and said, "This—God, this will help so much. Thank you."

Mr. Lancer chuckled and joked, "You won't be thanking us when the other students get wind of it, Mr. Fenton."

"Yeah, I bet." He'd've been downright envious if someone were presented with this opportunity, too, even if he didn't have Phantom's extra responsibilities. "I promise I'll keep it on the down-low." Ishiyama looked ready to add something, but he already guessed what it was she was going to say. With the knowledge that his habit of passing out on desktops had most likely been reported by his previous teachers, he rubbed his neck and said, "And I won't disappoint you."

Surprisingly, that satisfied Ishiyama, who looked between the two Fenton children and said, "We look forward to great things from both of you."

"They're all set, then?" Mom asked.

"Yes, we have everything we need. They're officially enrolled, and now that they have their schedules, they can call themselves Ravens!"

"Great!" Dad exclaimed with a crooked smile, clapping both Danny and Jazz on the shoulder. Ever eager and blunt, he immediately turned the conversation around. "Now that the kids are good, tell us more about your ghost evacuation plans. Maddie said something about the gym?"

"That's right," the principal said. "We also considered the auditorium, but the gym can house more people. Since we've only experienced minor attacks—" Danny flinched in his seat "—we cannot be sure the gym will be enough in the long run."

"Maddie actually just realized something this morning," Dad said.

"Yes, I'm sorry we didn't bring it to your attention sooner." Mom smiled sheepishly. "With everything going on, it completely slipped our minds to even think that there might be a disadvantage."

"A disadvantage?" the principal inquired.

"Yes, you see, it probably wouldn't be the best idea to herd the students to one room. Our shields can stop anything with an ectosignature from gettin' in, except Danny, that is, but—"

"Wait, _what_?" Danny interrupted, his spirits sinking. "You didn't tell me about this either!"

"Is it really that surprising, Danny? Honestly," Jazz teased.

Dad beamed proudly. "Calibrating our inventions to ignore your ectosignature was a tough thing, too, what with yours being a little—"

There was a sudden roaring in his ears, fading in and out like a crappy radio signal, and fear trickled down his spine. Swallowing thickly, he ignored the encroaching memories and his churning stomach and croaked, "I don't think that's a good idea."

Mom's brow furrowed. "Why? I thought you said that it would have been extremely helpful if—"

"I know, I know, I did say that, but that was before…" He averted his eyes and spoke to his knees. "Did you think about what would happen if I was somehow…compromised? There'd…I mean, it wouldn't be the first time. Pariah Dark nearly—he—he nearly…"

The faculty members looked at a loss as to what to say, but Jazz interceded before Mom could so much as blink. "Danny," his sister consoled, "the chances of that happening again are slim to none now that Soul Shredder and the Ring of Rage are powerless. Freakshow's scepter is long gone too, _and _you know that Ghost Writer's been enlisted by Clockwork and the Observants to scour the Library for information on any spells or artifacts that would be powerful enough to control ghosts so that they can be located and destroyed."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand. One library and one ghost is enough to—?"

"The Ghost Zone has few true libraries—as we know them, anyway—but _the _Library is something else entirely," Jazz said to the principal. "And it only has one Librarian. It's a fascinating place, but that's not important right now. What _is _important—" she eyed Danny meaningfully "—is that there is a much higher likelihood of a powerful ghost overshadowing someone, masking his or her ectosignature in the possessed body, and infiltrating the shield anyway. What could you do if that ghost decided to wreck havoc and you couldn't get through the shield?"

Ishiyama stiffened in her chair, her expression twisted in disgust. "I will not have that," she said determinedly. "This was a common occurrence at your old school?"

The question was addressed to him, and with everyone else's gazes beating down on him, he suddenly felt like a bug underneath a magnifying glass. They were looking to _Fenton_ for advice, he realized, and he wasn't quite sure how to feel about that.

"It is as easy as pie for some of them," Danny admitted numbly. "So, yeah, it's…definitely happened. More often than I'd care to say. Now that we have some allies in the Ghost Zone, though, it might not be half as bad as it once was back home, but then again, we can't say that just yet. Ghosts don't live by the same rules we do, and their culture is…odd, to say the least. We're not entirely sure how they'll view the truce we made now that the Ghost King is gone."

The principal and Lancer hardly exchanged a look, and the Asian woman's expression hardened with determination. "The students' safety is our priority, and there's always the chance _you'll _need the shield's protection, Danny. They will remain as they are." The principal folded her hands in front of her. "I'm sure we'll be discussing these potential situations in more detail at another date, but for now, let's focus on getting the shields up. Mr. Fenton, you were saying?"

Dad blinked and then remembered. "Oh! Yes, right. Our shields will prevent ghosts from entering and stray ectoblasts from hurting anybody, but they won't prevent debris from falling through. The kids'll need space to move if it comes to that, which is why we suggest multiple evacuation locations. Just to be on the safe side."

"Alright," Ishiyama said slowly. "We have approximately three thousand students. The performing arts center can hold nearly half that number, and the gym has enough seating in the bleachers for all of them."

Mom and Dad exchanged a look. "That should work perfectly."

"Wonderful!" Ishiyama took a brief glance at her wristwatch before standing. "Mr. Lancer, please direct them where they need to go and answer any further questions they have. I'm afraid I'm going to need to excuse myself. I volunteered myself to be a faculty supervisor at the Lions Club event today, and since I'm gong to be participating in the Walk as well, I need to collect my things and change."

"Diabetes Walk?" Jazz guessed, eyes alight. When there was an affirmative nod, she added, "Our grandpa is diabetic. Type II."

"My father-in-law is as well," Ishiyama returned.

"Perhaps you and your brother would be interested in attending, Jasmine?" Lancer suggested.

Danny, who was just getting out of his chair, paused, and his apprehension came back with crushing force, nearly taking his breath away. "That's alright, Mr. Lancer," he said as courteously as he could. "I'd like to help my parents set up the shields."

His parents really didn't need help setting up the shields, but he hoped they wouldn't say as much. For _once_ in his life, however, the timing was right.

"Yes, unfortunately, we do need the kids' help if we want to make it home before the moving truck gets there. Next time, I'm sure."

"Of course," the principal said, once again offering her hand to Mom and Dad first. "Thank you for taking the time to do this for us. It really was a pleasure to meet all of you."

Everyone else exchanged their farewells, and since he was holding the door for everyone, Danny was the last in line to exit the office. He was just about to step through the threshold when he heard his name being called from within. Cocking an inquiring eyebrow, he hid a wince, paused at the door, and pivoted slightly toward Principal Ishiyama. There was a strange emotion in her dark eyes, and he swallowed anxiously. The stiffness and upright do-good attitude he had begun to associate with her, however, had faded away, and she slumped a little in her chair. After several interminable seconds, she passed her hand across her eyes. "My six-year-old daughter and my husband," she began, "were visiting the Shedd Aquarium when the city first unexpectedly shut down. A few of our staff, as it happens, have children and relatives attending colleges or working in the city…a number of our students' siblings and families on top of that."

Danny's eyes widened, and he hesitated, mouth working around words that he couldn't voice. A weak smile spread across her lips, and she continued, "There were no causalities—none that I am aware of, anyway—and that is thanks to you. I just want you to know…whatever you hear out there, there are people here who are indebted to you."

"I never wanted that," he finally managed.

"It doesn't make it any less true, Mr. Fenton."

"I don't—I don't want to be treated—" Danny bit his tongue, unable to understand why it was he was just _blurting _this out. Vaguely, he heard his mother calling for him, and he jerked his head toward the door. He can't remember if he offered any form of apology to the principal for the hasty exit, but he did offer her a quick smile. There was a soft "thank you" from behind him, and without looking back, he took a step out the door and responded, "You're welcome."

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

Oz out_._


	5. The Sweeter Corner

**AN:** Exciting chapter here for ya. ;) Sam was a bit of a challenge for me in this one, but I think I'm happy with this.

Another collective thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing, favorite'ing, and following! To those I couldn't thank via PM, I give you double thanks. :D

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Sweeter Corner**

It was all going very well, Sam thought. Surprisingly enough. She and Tuck hadn't been late, which definitely put her in her parents' good graces. Her mother, dressed in high-end athletic leggings, Prada sunglasses, and the yellow Strides shirt (another surprise for Sam, seeing as the color "clashed so horridly" with Pamela's artificial ginger hair) actually greeted the pair _civilly_, though Sam expected that was only because they were in public, and _of course_ they had to be perfect in the eye of the public.

She didn't think she'd ever really understand what it was her mother was trying so hard to be—or what it was she was trying so hard to prove—by going through this poise-and-propriety shit twenty-four-seven, but she wasn't about to complain just now. This wasn't about her. Not today. She wasn't going to deny it, though: the significant lack of tension between them was more relieving than she would've thought possible, and it felt as though a massive boulder had been lifted from her chest. With a newfound bounce in her step, she obeyed her mother's orders and eagerly went to help other Lions Club members, Tucker in tow. The Club was expecting a big turn-out, mostly due to the fact that several of Casper's hardest teachers were offering extra credit for attending this event, and there was quite a bit to get done before people started to arrive in another hour and a half.

Yes, everything was going great…until the whispers started.

Sam had been hauling a bag of ice from the parking lot to the coolers when she heard her mother snap at another Lions Club member, and her first thought was, _Well, that didn't last very long. _As refreshing as it was to hear her mother's temper being directed toward another person, she saw her dad's jaw tighten, and she immediately steeled herself. Whatever it was that pissed her off so royally was going to rebound, and Sam, who would have _no _qualms getting into a full-fledged argument if need be, unlike her father, would be the one to take the brunt of it. It was too beautiful a day to fight, however, and this _was _meant to be peaceful ground, so she approached as though she hadn't overheard anything. Pamela brushed by without saying a word, Dad close behind. Sam ignored them and split the bag open in order to pour the ice into the cooler.

"Did you hear?"

Sam's arms jerked, and several ice cubes sailed over the edge and onto the track. "Tucker, honestly," she hissed, whirling on him.

He was hefting another bag in his hands, and grinning, he propped it up against the cooler. "So? Did you hear?" he repeated.

"About what?" she grumbled.

"Some people just drove in now. They claim they recognized the Fenton's Ghost Assault Vehicle. _Here_." His grin broadened. "At the school."

_"Ah_," Sam murmured. "That would do it." In response to the confused expression flitting across Tucker's face, she further explained, "It looks like someone force-fed Mother Dearest a lemon over there."

Tuck's gaze drifted to her mother, who was sipping at a water bottle as she pretended to oversee the volunteers. Jeremy Manson was muttering in undertone to her, but she didn't look very receptive. "Yeah, that's one way to say it."

Sam snorted as she took Tuck's bag of ice and dumped it in. He took her silence as an opportunity to press, "You know, I bet they're telling the truth. It only makes sense they'd be here to install the shields we've been hearing so much about during those stupid assemblies, right?" Without an immediate response from Sam, he whistled under his breath and mused, "Maaaan, I wonder exactly what it is that powers those babies. Would it be stupid to assume they use some sort of battery? You know…that almost seems too obvious for them. Maybe they—"

"As happy as I am to hear that we might have shields up by the time the weekend's over, I don't really care, Tuck," Sam said, crumpling the plastic bag and tossing it at a nearby trash can. It missed.

"Ah, come on!" he protested. "Don't you wanna do some recon?"

"No, I really don't." She bent over to pick up her trash, which made it into the can this time, and then knelt beside the cooler to begin stuffing it with water bottles. Belatedly, she realized it would have probably been a better idea to put the drinks in first, and she stabbed each bottle viciously into the blanket of ice. "They don't need any more people snooping 'round, Tucker."

"Sam," he said seriously, "I'm hurt. Don't you know me at all? I'm not about to go stalking_ them_. That RV of theirs, though…"

Her hands were cold, and the ice was already starting to sweat a bit. She rubbed several beads of water off her skin. "That still counts as 'snooping around' in my book."

"It's only snooping if they catch us at it! I want to get a closer look!" His eyes were alight with that frenzied, geeky excitement, and Sam couldn't help but smile. "You've seen it in action! That thing is a _beast_. And they built it from scratch! They don't say much about their inventions, seeing as it's the ghost-hunting that takes up a majority of the media's interest, so I'm really_, _really tempted to ask them for permission to step inside sometime. I bet they'd be happy to talk to us about—"

"Us?" she repeated sharply. "No thanks, Tuck. I'm not interested."

He scoffed. "Lies. The ghosts fascinate you just as much as their tech fascinates me, don't you deny it." He certainly had her there, and she pursed her lips. "Don't you want to learn more?"

"Of course I do!" she snapped. "But I don't want to hound them. You know what happened in the seventh grade when everyone found out my family was loaded! It's obviously not the same, but I'm just—I don't—" Groaning in frustration, she finally settled with a "Just leave them be, Tuck."

His exasperated expression melted into the sort of puppy-dog pout he _knew _she couldn't resist. For all her tough exterior, she really was a big softie when it came down to it, and he would exploit this power over her whenever he deemed fit.

And for Tucker, that was often. Very often. By this point in their friendship, he'd gotten his pout down to perfection.

"Cover for me, at least?" he beseeched.

The last of the plastic bottles had been shoved into the cooler, and brushing her chilled hands on her shirt, she heaved a sigh. "Fine." When that wicked grin of his spread across his face and he began complimenting her and her lineage profusely, she shoved the overdramatic fool over and said, "You better hope you don't get caught, tech boy! And you gotta be back before people start showing up or I'll string you up myself!"

"Chill, Sam! I'll be there and back in a snap." In an utterly failed attempt to be sneaky, he scrambled upright and slunk off in the direction of the parking lots behind the school.

As it turned out, her promise to cover for him, should anyone ask for him, was unnecessary. No one noticed him slip away, and within five minutes after Tucker was gone, she got called to lug some foldable tables. Somehow, she ended up without a partner to help her carry the last one in the cart, and too impatient to wait for another volunteer, she slid her hands to the middle of the table's edge, bumped it up with her hip, and hefted it upward. It wasn't all that heavy, but it was cumbersome. With every step she took, it was a battle to avoid getting whacked by the thing.

"Ms. Manson!" a voice nearby exclaimed. "Here." Sam turned just as someone took hold of the table from behind. Principal Ishiyama, looking slightly frazzled, smiled and brushed hair out of her eyes. "I'll help you with this."

Sam returned the smile, though the t-shirt and casual capris that replaced Ishiyama's usual business skirts, blouses, and pressed pants made her indescribably uncomfortable. She supposed that's what happened when one realized even teachers had lives outside of school.

It would have taken ages longer for Sam to carry the table by herself, so naturally, she gave the woman a gracious "thank you." She wasn't, however, feeling too grateful when the principal's presence attracted Pamela Manson.

"Kim!" she greeted sweetly.

As her companion stood, Sam continued to pop out the table legs from their cozy indentions on the underside of the table. "Hello, Pamela! How've you been?"

"Busy, busy, busy," Sam's mom chittered.

"Yes, I can see that," the principal agreed, scanning the track and football field. Nearly everything was ready by now. "It's looking good. I'm sorry I was delayed getting here."

Her mother glanced at her fancy wristwatch. "Oh dear, it _is_ getting late. I didn't realize the time. It's too early for any heavy traffic…was there an accident blocking the highway?"

Sam's back was to her mother, but there was no mistaking what she was attempting here. The teenager could imagine the sickeningly angelic, innocent expression on her face, wide eyes gleaming with false thoughtfulness. A smirk twitched at the corner of Sam's mouth when Ishiyama's tone lost its warmth. "No, I had business to attend to here at the school earlier this morning," the principal admitted formally. "It took a little longer than I anticipated."

Her brow furrowed and plastic smile faded, but before she could say anything, they were interrupted. "Principal Ishiyama!"

Smirk quickly transforming into a grimace, Sam internally screeched at the sound of the very recognizable accent. After forcing herself to take several deep, cleansing breaths, she flipped the table onto its legs, put it in line with the others, and turned to see Paulina Sanchez batting her long lashes at Ishiyama.

"Oh, I'm _so _sorry." She didn't sound very sorry at all. In fact, the bubblegum-princess "I-can-get-whatever-I-want-just-because" timbre in Paulina's voice was far less covert than it was in her mother's. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but is it true, then? That—"

It was with intense glee that Sam witnessed Mr. Sanchez, the Club's VP, grab his daughter's hand and give her one of the fiercest glares she had ever seen in her life. He said something in a dark undertone to her, and she backed off, eyes downcast. When she saw Sam watching her, however, her features contorted into a righteous sneer, but the narrow-eyed disdain with which Paulina used to intimidate countless others did not work on Sam Manson.

"I apologize for the interruption," Mr. Sanchez said, sounding significantly more genuine than Paulina had. "Pamela, Jeremy told me to see you about the cash box? We're going to need it soon."

"Yes, of course. Our treasurer had an unforeseen emergency, so it's…" Sam's mother paused and asked, "Kim? I was told Jeff left the box in your care. Did you…?"

Principal Ishiyama's hand flew to her forehead. "No, no, I'm sorry, Pamela. I _knew _I was forgetting something. It is still locked away in my office…and I just sent our secretary at the desk home, too. Everything's been locked up. I'll just—" Delicate fingers dug into capris pockets as she spoke, and after withdrawing some car keys, she frowned and was just about to riffle through her purse when she suddenly paused. "Oh, that's right." She chuckled in embarrassment. "The keys we need are with Mr. Lancer. I'll just—"

"Oh, don't worry yourself over it!" Pamela said cheerily. "Samantha would be glad to go find Mr. Lancer for you."

_She hasn't called me Samantha in weeks, _Sam mused. After a suspicious glance at her mom, who was eyeing the principal like a viper would its prey, she nodded lazily at the principal.

"You'll most likely find him in the office, Ms. Manson," Ishiyama said, accepting her offer appreciatively. "Thank you."

It wasn't until she promised to return as quickly as possible and began to walk away that she realized she had completely forgotten about Tucker…and that Mr. Lancer was at the school on a Saturday. With an important key ring in hand.

_Oh, shit_, Sam cussed. _They _are_ here_. _Tucker was right_. _They're here to install the shields._

She…wasn't sure how to feel about that, and she clenched her teeth.

All she knew is that she really, really wasn't in the mood to meet the Fentons.

Wasn't in the mood? No, it was more than that. This was the first time she admitted it to herself, and she hated it. Despite the inevitability of meeting them at somepoint—their children would be attending school with her, after all—she really did _not_ want to run into them. Not…Not yet.

It wasn't that she didn't admire them. They were brilliant. Truly, truly brilliant, and she would have given a leg to have a single, private conversation with them about ghosts. And Phantom…One cannot simply be friends with Tucker Foley without having some interest in comic books and superheroes, and…well, she'd been a bit of a closet fan. Not one of those rabid, Paulina-type _Phans _who erected shrines in her locker and went on special trips to Chicago just to catch a glimpse of the ghost boy—she'd stuff her foot down the throat of anyone who dared accuse her of _those_ horrors—but…someone who watched and cheered him on from the sidelines, nonetheless.

But that was before the Shift. That was before the Fentons reevaluated theory upon theory when their son revealed he was Phantom. That was before she learned they had hunted their own son for nearly a _year_ before forming an alliance with him.

She was judging them already, and she hated that, too, because it made her feel like a hypocrite on top of everything else…namely because she lived by the phrase "don't judge a book by its cover."

Maybe she was being hard on herself, but after all that happened these past few weeks, after all the fighting, resentment began to bud and spread like a weed, which conflicted with her respect and gratitude for everything they'd done to fight the ghost threat. It was only natural she wanted to give back, but she couldn't help but worry that all she suffered and strived for these past few weeks would mean nothing to them. Simultaneously, she couldn't help but feel guilty that she couldn't do more. Frustration with her uselessness only increased her resentment, which cycled around and around until she was sure she wanted _nothing _to do with the Fentons, but of course she _did_ want something to do with them because she wasn't going to stand by when she could help them help others, which…created another cycle within a cycle of complicated emotions.

She didn't do emotions well, so she bore it all, wishing with all her heart that she'd be given a few more days to get over it before she had to face any of them. As she padded across the parking lot, she fiercely repeated to herself: _Lancer is in the office, and he is alone. 'Course he is. Ishiyama said he'd be._

Without thinking, she entered the door to the aquatic center, which was nearly always open—Coach Tetslaff was even more of a tyrant to her swimmers than she was to her P.E. students—and surprisingly, the second set of doors leading into the depths of the school were open as well. She shrugged and went through, finding herself alone in the long and half-illuminated athletic hallway.

The silence and emptiness might have been eerie to others, but without the usual gaggle of idiots rushing to and from class and without all the shoving, chattering, and yelling, the predictable and immature desire to sprint down the hallway as fast as she possibly could was nearly impossible to control. It was probably pathetic she was so thrilled to realize she had the freedom to race through the entire school if she so chose, but she didn't really care.

Exactly how many times had the rule "don't run in the halls" been reinforced over her years at public school again?

With a wild grin, she took off like a bullet from a gun, her footsteps echoing in the hall, and in that moment, all she knew was the straining of her muscles and the harsh burn in her lungs. An unforeseen opponent raced alongside her, and she pushed harder, just for the hell of it. She could have stopped when she reached the end of the hallway, but where was the fun in that? The band hallway connected to the athletic hallway just there, so there was no question about it: she had to see just how fast she could skid around that—

The next thing Sam knew, something hard pummeled her in the gut. Her feet were knocked out from from under her, and an undignified yelp escaped her lips. There was a flail of feet as whoever it was she ran into tried to avoid falling on top of her, so by the time her ass finally hit the floor, she was pretty sure she had been kicked at least twice. Stunned, she could only vaguely hear someone apologizing repetitively, and when she finally became aware that a pair of rather large hands was all up in her personal bubble…

Well, that was _not _okay.

"Hey!" she protested angrily, knocking the hands away with a sharp backhand of her own. "You better watch i—"

Glacial blue eyes, brimming with concern, met her own, and as the owner of those eyes blushed and crouched before her, Sam's gut sank straight through the floor.

Danny Fenton ran his hand through his dark hair and chuckled abashedly. "I—um—don't necessarily think it's me who should be watching it," he joked. "I _am _sorry for knocking you over, though. You okay?"

_He has freckles_, Sam commented to herself. For some reason, that surprised her. This kid's face was everywhere, and yet…

Laughter bubbled from her lips. Of course it did. This was fucking hysterical because it was just her luck that this would happen. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good," she answered belatedly. _Get a grip, Sam_. _Get a _grip_. "_God, this is kind of embarrassing."

"Of all the clichéd ways to meet someone, right?" he joked, rolling his eyes. Now that he seemed sure she was alright, amusement danced in those shocking blue eyes of his. There was a mischievous quirk in his crooked smile, too, and it…was more _real _than the shaky one he'd greeted her with. It lit his entire face. "Here."

The last of her hilarity died as she looked at his offered hand, suddenly unsure if he was somehow mocking her or if he was actually being a gentleman. Either way, she found it offensive—she could get up on her _own, _thank you very much—but when she saw his smile begin to fade and noticed him metaphorically retreat into a shell of his own making, she couldn't help but feel guilty and reach out for his hand. His skin was noticeably cool to the touch, and once the two teens rose to their feet, Sam immediately stepped back.

"Thanks," she said. "Turns out teachers actually _do_ have a point when they tell us not to run in the halls. Who knew?"

He snickered and whispered with mock-seriousness, "Shhh, don't say that too loud. They'd never let us live it down."

_Oh my God, he's actually a dork. _She'd been around Tucker long enough to know with one-hundred-percent surety. That alone shocked her more than the freckles had, and though she normally prided herself in having excellent people skills, she suddenly felt as though she was completely out of her depth here. Her gut swooped again as she scanned his face, and it occurred to her (yet again) exactly who it was she was speaking to. The juxtaposition between what she had assumed (goddammit, she _was _judging him without knowing him) and what she had just deduced in the last thirty seconds was making her so uncomfortable that she didn't really know how to..._be._ She had _never _felt this unconfident in her life.

It didn't help that the girly side of her, the one she refused to acknowledge, had been discreetly surveying his tall, lanky body, noting his posture, his clothes, his face… He really was cuter in person, and despite what she heard of his condition on the news, he really seemed none the worse for wear after the battle he fought.

Never in a million years was she about to let any of that _show, _though. Some part of her remembered why it was she tried so hard to stand against her mother and all the other anti-ghost sympathizers, and she put all her weight on it.

His good humor had all but disappeared by this point, and he scuffed at the floor with his raggedy Converse, looking as out of place as she felt. Her resolve solidified.

Chuckling a little for his benefit, she said smoothly, "Speaking of teachers, I've actually got to find one and get back out to the track. The Lions Club thing is going to start soon, and I really need his help with something."

"Does—Does that teacher happen to be Mr. Lancer?"

She blinked. "Yeah, actually, it is. I was told that he was in the office?"

The kid shook his head. "He's with us. I mean, he's in the gym. With my parents and sister. I—um…I went to grab something for my dad—" he tugged what looked a hell of a lot like a cross between a sonic screwdriver (1) and a pocket knife out of his hoodie pocket "—and took a wrong turn getting back. Wasn't really paying attention."

"Good thing we're heading in the same direction then. C'mon." Acting on impulse, she snatched his upper arm and tugged him back the way she came. It was only when he tripped forward, stepping on the back of her shoe in the process, that she realized she was touching him with as much familiarity as she would Tucker, and she forced herself to pretend absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary when she released her hold.

"Thanks, um—?"

"Sam," she answered.

He fell into step beside her and returned, "Danny."

It was really sweet of him to introduce himself, even though he must know that _everyone _knew him on sight now. "Well, welcome to our little corner of hell, Danny."

She had been completely deadpan when she said it. Was it a test? Perhaps. Perhaps not. The ultimate test would be to see how he dealt with people who were too thoughtless to treat him like a human being, but for now, she'd observe what she could for herself.

_ So much for not wanting to meet any of the Fentons, Manson_.

He didn't necessarily disappoint. He surveyed her expression with serious blue eyes before cracking a grin. "I'm not going to lie: if this is a corner of hell, it's definitely one of the sweeter corners."

She gave him a disbelieving look. "I don't know what kind of high school you went to before, but this one's designed to suck the life out of its students and revel in the emotional distress of angst-y and dramatic teenagers."

He didn't miss a beat. "And here I was thinking you meant Amity Park in general," he sighed. "Scratch what I said."

"That's better," she approved. "Got three more years to go, unfortunately."

"Same." His tone had lost some of its light-heartedness again. "We'll suffer together, I suppose."

Unexpected warmth rushed through her. "You know…" she pondered aloud, changing the subject. "I didn't apologize for nearly plowing you down."

"Eh, it's no big deal. I've taken harder hits than that."

The moment the words were out of his mouth, his eyes widened, and he winced, gnawing at his bottom lip. Sam, however, pretended as though she hadn't noticed, and her heart panged slightly. She'd _seen_ him take harder hits than that, and once again, she found herself eyeing his long sleeves and dark jeans. "Doesn't let me off the hook. So… I'm sorry I nearly plowed you down."

"'s alright," he muttered, rolling the weird screwdriver-pocketknife thing he'd previously displayed to her between his fingers.

Sam was _very _glad they'd reached the gym by that point because it was starting to feel awkward again. The moment she pushed open the door, a large man wearing a neon orange jumpsuit lifted his goggles and half-turned from the metal box he had just installed on the gym wall. "Hey, Danny-boy!" he boomed. "'Bout time! Bring the Fenton Thingamajig over here and fix that loose wire for m—" Dark teal eyes narrowed speculatively at Sam. "Who's your friend?"

"Uh, this is Sam," Danny said, gesturing toward her. "I met her in the hall. She needed to talk to Mr. Lancer about something."

Mr. Lancer, who had been speaking to Maddie Fenton and a girl whose natural red hair would have had Pamela Manson blazing with jealousy, heard his name and noticed her standing beside Danny. "Ms. Manson?" he asked, cocking a brow. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The Fenton…_Thingamajig_ slipped through stiff fingers and clattered to the floor. From her peripheral vision, she saw Danny blushing to the roots of his dark hair and stooping to swipe it off the floor, and she winced. Yeeeaaah, she knew it had been stupid to hope he didn't know that her mother was the anti-ghost kingpin of Amity Park. He obviously wasn't the only one. She felt the rest of the family's gazes on her, too.

"Hey, Mr. Lancer," she responded. "I don't mean to barge in on you, but Principal Ishiyama left the Lions Club's cash box in her office, and she left the particular key we need here with you."

The teacher's eyes brightened in sudden understanding. "Ah, I see. I'll escort you, Ms. Manson. I'm sure they need that straight-away."

"Yeah, they do."

Mr. Lancer turned to Mr. and Mrs. Fenton. "I'll be back shortly. If you finish this shield while I'm gone, would you mind waiting here momentarily?"

"Of course not, Mr. Lancer," Maddie Fenton assured. "Take all the time you need. This one will be another few minutes."

"Excellent. Let's go, Ms. Manson."

Sam's eyes passed over Danny as she turned, and though his stare unnerved her and chilled her to the bone—_that _was Phantom, she had no doubt—she smiled. Something (she couldn't be sure what) possessed her to say, "Good luck on Monday, Danny."

Jasmine nudged him when he didn't respond, and the hard edge in his eyes melted away once he finally blinked. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam was just about to turn back to Mr. Lancer when Maddie Fenton suddenly called out, "Oh, sorry, wait a moment!" The older woman waved away any protests and questions from her family members, approached the teacher and student, and said in a soft undertone to Sam, "I was wondering if I might have a word. Real quick."

Shocked momentarily, Sam blinked and said, "Sure."

Curious blue eyes followed her. She knew they did, and she sent a silent thank you to Mr. Fenton for asking Danny to "get crackin' at that loose wire." Even without his gaze on her, however, it was distracting, to say the least—to hear them speaking about the shield, laughing together… Danny had a nice laugh, and it was even nicer to see him nodding seriously at his father's words, obviously focused on what he was saying and on what they were doing.

Mrs. Fenton reclaimed her attention when she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She really was beautiful, soft in all the places Sam's own mother was sharp. "Sam," she said gently, "I've seen your name a few times in the news, and…I've been hoping for an opportunity to thank you. You were really brave to make the stand you did—for us, for _him_—and…I'm sorry we haven't shown our appreciation until now. Your protests did more for us than you know, and I can't imagine it was easy for you…or your family." Both females flicked their gazes toward the rest of the Fenton family, all hard at work on the shield. Jazz was the only sneaking peaks in their direction. "We…we didn't tell Danny," Maddie continued, her voice cracking, "just…how close of a call it was, just how much work it took to get him here, because we didn't want him to worry too much, to feel...Well, not to say that he's ignorant, by any means, but he doesn't know the full story. Not yet, at any rate."

Sam nodded numbly, her heart flooding with warmth. Her doubts, her worries…_needless_, and she truly felt as though she was soaring. "I understand," she said. "And it really was the least I could do, Mrs. Fenton."

Tears beaded in the mother's eyes, and she brushed them away with brusque fingers. "Soon, he'll be able to thank you himself, but for now, on his behalf, _thank you, _dear. Thank you."

* * *

(1) No, I can't imagine Sam being a big fan of Doctor Who or being much of a sci-fi fan at all. I see her…as a crime drama and medieval fantasy fan. Tucker, on the other hand? Yessiree. Naturally, she would know DW references _very _well.

* * *

**AN:** I hope that lived up to your expectations! This chapter's ending was supposed to parallel with the last chapter's, so I hope that wasn't a poor move on my part. Anyway, I have to say, I'm really excited to write Tucker meeting Danny, just because I know these two have an easier relationship than Sam and Danny do in the show. It's obviously a taaaaaad more complicated with Sam. ;D

**Just an FYI**: Since beginning this fic, I have had most of my chapters pre-prepared and ready to go. Unfortunately, I've begun to catch up to my pre-prepared chapters. That being said, the next chapter is nearly ready, and I _will_ be able to post it on time next week. I am not sure what will be said about the chapters following, especially since I am a slow writer and I will be starting my first year of pharmacy school in the next month. As always, I'll try my best to update in a timely manner. Thank you for your understanding.

_To Be Continued_.

Oz out.


	6. The Real Reason

**AN: **I had every intention of writing chapters solely from either Danny's or Sam's POV. Whoops. xD

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Real Reason**

The moment Sam and Mr. Lancer left the gym, Jazz was on him. She didn't even have to say anything, but then again, she never really had to.

He barely turned from the panel he was working on and said, "Just spit it out, Jazz."

She sighed. "How'd it go?"

"What do you mean 'how'd it go?'" he asked. "It just—" he waved his left hand ineffectively "—_went._"

"Clear as mud, son," Dad chipped in. "You know what your sister means." When Danny didn't respond, he prodded cheerily, "Did you ask her about the school?"

"I…didn't really have the chance," he admitted, lowering the Fenton Thingamajig. Honestly, he couldn't be exactly sure _what _he said. It kind of passed in a blur. All he could distinctly remember was a solid, stinging blow to his torso and unique violet eyes that sent butterflies cartwheeling through his stomach. At one point, he recalled, it had felt so comfortable, so natural, talking to her…that there weren't any labels. He wasn't a ghost or hero; she wasn't a fan or a cynic. He was just that new student who accidentally got himself lost in his new school, and she was the sympathetic one who took pity on him and helped him out. Above all, though, he was just Danny, and she was _real_.

While she talked to him, there were no gaping stares, no gasps or shrieks, which is what he'd been expecting. Better yet, there were no scowls, no sneers or odd shudders, which were the usual responses from his peers in Chicago whenever they saw him walking through the halls. It was almost a new experience for him. Having always lived under the shadow of his "nut-jobs" of parents, he'd never had the chance to really connect with anyone his own age before they got scared away by his family's eccentricities or by bullies' threats. Naturally, he had been on edge the moment she dashed around that corner. Much to his surprise, she and he—they just…well, whatever it was, it felt relatively _normal_.

Until he had to ruin it by oh-so-nonchalantly mentioning just how abnormal he was. _I've taken harder hits than that. _What was he _thinking_? Obviously, he wasn't thinking at all. It completely slipped out, and all he had hoped in that moment was that she didn't think he was boasting or anything. From his experience with self-absorbed jocks and rich kids at his old school, that was a sure-fire way to be identified as a conceited asshole, and that was _not _how he wanted to go about making friends.

He wasn't sure why it mattered so much anyway. Sam was just one person, he tried to convince himself, even if she was one of _those _Mansons, who… probably had her opinions of him more or less solidified anyway.

But even after hearing that name, after freezing a little on the inside, he came to the conclusion she was not of the same fold. There was no way she could be. Sam Manson was different, and there was something about her he couldn't help but feel attracted to. It wasn't just her effortless beauty (of _course _he noticed, and yes, he was _very _proud of himself for keeping everything tangible) but her overall…aura: her appealing, wry sense of humor, the way she held herself and spoke to him, meeting his eyes without flinching, grabbing his arm as though he _wasn't _a powerful ghost hybrid…

_Good luck on Monday, Danny_, she'd said, as though she cared, as though she understood.

He might not know much about what it meant to have a close friend—and maybe he was a fool, maybe he was just scrabbling for her kindness, her _realness,_ to act as his lifeline—but he did know he'd be pretty darn lucky to have her as one of his.

"That's a shame," Dad said, interrupting his musings. "She could be in some of your classes, for all we know. Ah, well, even if she isn't, having one friendly face in a crowd of many is better than none, right, Danno?"

"Yeah," Danny muttered, not even attempting to deny just how nice it would have been to have talked to her a little longer. "It's possible we do have some classes together, though. She is a sophomore."

"Is she?" Mom asked from behind, rejoining the conversation. When Danny nodded, she smiled slyly. "You know, Danny, she _was _pretty cute, wasn't she?"

"Oh my God, Mom," he protested. "I just met her!"

Mom chuckled. "We 'just meet' people everyday, Danny. Every so often, though, we meet the ones who matter."

"I didn't know you believed in destiny, Mom," Jazz teased, a knowing grin on her face.

"There are just some coincidences," Mom said mysteriously, "that can't be explained otherwise."

Now suspicious, Danny looked between the two. "Wait, what? What coincidence?"

~…~

He didn't learn about the coincidence until later, while driving back home and then while sitting cross-legged on the living room floor when the conversation continued thereafter. Having already suspected that his parents and sister were sheltering him from some of the harsher, less…satisfactory news concerning his big reveal, he couldn't find it in himself to be angry at them. He couldn't even find it in himself to be disappointed that the battle outside his sick room had been worse than he thought.

No, he was more humbled that Sam Manson would do this for him, that she would risk her bond with her family for him… He'd known that some people were watching out for him—he wasn't _that _out of the loop—but this was beyond anything he ever expected. Though a part of him was beating itself up for not realizing just how much of an impact she made, the other part was blazing with determination. He _would _make it up to her. He would thank everyone in Amity who had a hand in it, too.

And he had the perfect opportunity to do so.

The moment they were done telling him everything, Danny stood up and calmly asked for Lance Thunder's number. Apparently, he'd left his personal number for him to call. An absolute honor, Danny was sure, but despite how creeped out this guy's eagerness would normally make him, Danny dialed that number without hesitation. It wasn't until he heard the ringing on the other end that he realized exactly what he was doing.

The local news anchor picked up on the second ring, hardly giving Danny a chance to so much as think about what he was going to say. "Lance Thunder," a mildly distracted voice answered.

"Um, hi," Danny said. "This is Danny Fenton."

In the following years, Danny would swear on his half-life that the man fell out of his chair. There was no other way to explain the noise that emitted through the phone after he announced his name.

"Danny, my man! It is an _honor_, let me tell you." His excitement was overwhelming, and the image of a bouncing, over-eager puppy came to mind.

"…thank you," Danny mumbled, taken aback.

"And how _are_ you doing? I know you took quite a hit in Chicago."

_That's an understatement, dude. _"I'm…alright? Doing a lot better, thank you."

"That's good, that's great!" the man blabbered, and Danny's eyes narrowed. The distinction between this man and the three people he met today at the school was so profound he felt sick to his stomach. "So, I assume your father passed on my message."

_Messages_, Danny corrected with a grimace. "Yes, that's right," he said politely, controlling his tone, "and I'd…like to accept your offer. For an interview."

He could hear the guy's grin in his voice. "Wonderful! Fantastic! I can easily shift some things around, place a few calls, and get you a slot tonight!"

"_Tonight_?" Danny repeated, more shrilly than he intended. He had assumed that he'd have the night to mentally prepare, at least! "Um—"

"Of course tonight!" Lance Thunder exclaimed loudly, sounding offended. "You're big news, Danny! It has been at least three weeks since the Shift, and everyone's curious to hear your side of the story! Since I've heard that your parents are adamant against a city-wide press conference for the time being, we'd like you on as soon as possible! If you're available, of course." Danny heard a flurry of taps on the other end, but he was hardly paying attention. The word _tonight _played on repeat in his head. "I bet we can get you on at eight central. Eight sound good to you?"

Mom had emerged from the kitchen when she heard Danny's distressed tone, and she cocked a brow at him. He shrugged uselessly and mouthed, "_Tonight_?"

She nodded, and he lied, "Eight sounds great, Mr. Thunder."

"Oh, Lance is just fine, Danny. Please call me Lance."

"Alright," he conceded. "I'll be there, Lance."

"Thank you very much for your cooperation with us, Danny. Especially with it being so last minute and everything!" The guy laughed heartily, and when Mom noticed Danny's face twist and gave him another inquiring look, he gagged theatrically, causing her to roll her eyes. From some reason, it made him feel infinitely better. "Once I have everything finalized, I'll give you a call at this number and give you more of the details."

"Okay," he agreed. "Thank you for this opportunity."

"No, thank _you_. Until tonight!"

_Click._

Danny pulled the phone away from his ear, and after staring at it for a moment, unsure if that was generally how things like this were supposed to go, he stated, "This is going to be a nightmare. He's even more of a spazz than Jazz is."

"I heard that!" Jazz's voice echoed from upstairs.

"You were meant to!" he retorted reflexively.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, sweetheart," Mom comforted, completely ignoring the two siblings' bickering. "You can hold your own: you definitely proved that today, and no—" she interceded when she saw him begin to speak "—I'm not upset with you about that. You stood up for yourself, and I'm proud of you."

Danny exhaled slowly but could not find it in himself to say anything. She and Dad knew nothing of what happened during CAT testing last year—only Jazz remembered what happened before Clockwork pushed his magical reset button—and he meant to keep it that way.

"You know we trust you, don't you?"

He didn't meet his mother's indigo eyes, but he said, "Yeah, I know."

With a bright smile, she leaned against the door-jam and changed the subject. "While you were on the phone, your father got word from the movers. There was some trouble with a malfunctioning ectogun on the road, and now they're about an hour behind schedule."

Danny wasn't surprised. "Okay?"

"Well, it's still pretty early. If you're up for it, we have time to spare now, and we can get in contact with Sleetjaw and—"

"Yes!" he exclaimed immediately, leaping up and doing a sort of dorky victory punch in the air. He didn't care that he probably looked like an idiot. He didn't even think to care that this was kind of a big moment for the family, as far as all the Phantom stuff went. He only cared that he was feeling a hell of a lot better and that he might, _might _just be able to go flying tonight. "Yes, I am totally up for it."

For a moment, she looked a little bemused by his enthusiasm—and by his lack of insecurity, perhaps—but that was soon replaced by amusement and happiness. "I figured."

~…~

"Alright, spill."

Sam jolted back to reality and realized they'd walked a whole lap around the track already. "What?"

Tucker scrunched his nose and gestured wildly with his arms. "I've been going on about the mere _size _of the Fenton's tank of an RV for a solid five minutes now, and you haven't even rolled your eyes once."

She rolled her eyes then, but he didn't look too impressed. "Sam."

"I was just thinking, Tuck."

"Oh, no!" he exclaimed exaggeratedly. "I would have never guessed. Care to enlighten me on what it is you're thinking _about_?"

"The Fentons." There was no use keeping it from him, and why would she anyway? Tucker was the only one she wanted to tell. "It was worth it, Tucker. When I ran to find Mr. Lancer, I met them, and Maddie Fenton _thanked _me."

"Wait," Tucker said, his voice rising in pitch, "hold up now."

As it happened, Dash Baxter decided to show his smug face right at that very moment. Shoving himself between Sam and Tuck, he threw his arms across their shoulders. She froze, unsure if he'd overheard her. "The Fentons, huh, Manson?"

_Somewhat overheard, then. _"What's it to you, Baxter?" Sam said emotionlessly, maneuvering from under his arm. Tucker, unfortunately, was not as deft as she was and got stuck under the larger boy's armpit. Though he struggled against the hold, Sam knew Dash wasn't aiming to hurt him. Not this time, anyway.

Since her part in the Danny Fenton-Phantom protests bumped her up Casper's social hierarchy and forced a lot of previous enemies to become…frienemies, things had changed. She'd been able to use her unwanted status to her advantage, especially in regards to bullying, and the bullies themselves had started maturing in their own rights. In all honesty, though, it was still weird to see Dash actually…behaving. Well, in the loosest sense of the term. He might still be rude, temperamental, coarse, and obnoxious, and he might not be against asserting his dominance over his peers wherever and whenever possible, but whatever odd sort of gruff tolerance and almost-friendly manhandling this was—it was an improvement, for sure.

"Don't tell me you're still scheming to get Danny Fenton on the football team," she continued, "Or, better yet, thinking of going after his sister?"

"Dude," Tucker snorted as he finally rid himself of the beefy arm, "you've got about as much chance with Jazz Fenton as you have with the President of the United States."

And _there_ was the bully she knew. Before Sam could snarl a warning to Dash or back Tucker up, a meaty fist shot out and socked her friend in the gut. "Can it, Foley," the quarterback growled, catching Tucker by the scruff of the neck and pulling him upright just as he doubled over. Sam was tempted to kick the asshat in the balls for that, but logic prevailed over her violent urge. She settled for tugging Tuck away from the blond, who continued to sneer, "You're lucky there're a lot of witnesses here. Otherwise, I'd be beating you bloody for saying that, regardless of your Goth-bird friend here."

"Lay off, Dash," Sam threatened. "What kind of example are we setting here anyway?"

Dash's murky blue eyes followed Sam's, and he scowled when he saw a nearby mother walking with two elementary-school-aged children, who, being the curious children they were, watched the high school sophomores unblinkingly.

He smiled his blinding, photogenic "I'm-a-football-stud" smile at the kids and took a few steps away from Sam and Tucker. "And just so you know, Manson," he said through his teeth, "I'm not _scheming_. It's no secret I'm gonna ask him."

"Last I heard, they wouldn't budge on that front, Dash," Sam muttered, an ember of rage flaring in her chest.

Dash waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "And when did you last hear? Last week? It's been all hush-hush lately, so you don't know that. No one really knows what they've decided to do with him." Although his choice of words made her blood boil, she couldn't deny him that point, and he squared his shoulders, looking quite pleased with himself. "Man, can you imagine, though? With Phantom on our team, we could—!"

"If you don't respect him enough to actually call him by his _name,_" Sam barked, bursting the metaphorical bubble containing the athlete's little fantasy,"he's not going to give you the time of day."

Dash narrowed his eyes. "And who d'you suppose he _would_ give it to? _You_?"

Thankfully, Sam wasn't the type to gloat, and it was a big relief when Paulina distracted Dash because she might have gotten a little snarky and said some things she'd rather not have said.

"Whatever. Later, dweebs," Dash sneered before sauntering off to his girlfriend.

Tucker and Sam watched him go. "Ugh," she complained, scowling at the idiot's back. "You alright, Tuck?"

"Forget about me!" he exclaimed, still a little breathless. She noticed his hand rub absentmindedly at his stomach, but instead of showing any pain, his eyes were alight with curiosity. "What were they like? What happened? When did you meet them? It was Lancer, wasn't it? He was with them?"

"Whoa, boy, slow down," Sam teased, laughing.

Tucker didn't look put out in the slightest. "Seriously, Sam. What happened?"

"I ran into Danny Fenton," she admitted. "Literally. It was my fault, and I ended up on the floor."

There was a single, beautiful second of silence before Tuck snorted. "You're shitting me," he laughed. "That's, like, the most _cliché _thing in the book!"

Sam stared. "That's really creepy. That was one of the first things he said, too."

"I knew I'd like this kid." His grin broadened. "So…?" he pressed, rolling his wrist and gesturing her to proceed.

"What do you want me to say? He was…" Sam trailed off. "He was _normal_, Tuck."

Smile fading, Tucker deadpanned, "That is so informative, Sam, I can't get over it."

She swatted at his arm_._ "I mean…he wasn't a Class-A dickhead, and…he really didn't seem like he was flying high on the magical carpet of celebrity-dom either."

"_Magical carpet of celebrity-dom_," Tucker repeated. "Wooooow."

"Shut up," she said, shoving at him again. "You know what I mean."

"I guess?"

"I think I figured he'd be stuck up or basking in the limelight or whatever!" she defended, realizing how stupid she sounded as she said it.

"Really, Sam?" Tucker quirked a brow. "You didn't stop to think that maybe he avoided most cameras before the Shift for a reason? What about all the bad publicity he had?"

Honestly, she hadn't, but she wasn't about to admit that. "You've seen Phantom's fights! You've seen some of the tricks he's pulled!"

"What does that have to do with anything? We always laughed whenever he pulled a good one on the Guys in White. Or the Wisconsin Ghost. Or whoever the hell else he was fighting that week."

"Yeah, and we always thought he could be a bit of a cocky bastard, too," Sam reminded him, but her voice betrayed her. She had seen first hand that he was anything but. Even when he casually mentioned his alter-ego's tendency to take hits that hurt more than the full force of her sprinting body…Another person might have been showing off, but she'd known it was an unconscious effort to make her laugh, to make her feel better about running into him like that.

_God, I'm an idiot_.

"Oh," Tucker said, realization dawning. "I think I get it now."

"There you go, then," she muttered. "Anyway, the point is, after I fell on my ass, he—he apologized and helped me up."

Tucker's eyes nearly bugged from his head. "You _let _him help you? Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Sam?"

"I felt bad, alright!" she defended. "We laughed it off, but he did look kind of mortified. The whole thing was...awkward."

Tucker scrutinized her closely, and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Mmhmm, I bet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped. "Seriously, nothing much happened after that. He was lost, and since we were both headed in the same direction, I led him back to the gym."

"They're setting up the shields there?" he asked, his manic-geek smile returning in full force.

"Yeah. I didn't get a chance to really talk to any of the others—with the exception of Mrs. Fenton—but in general, they…they really are good people, I can tell. It isn't just some image they devised for publicity's sake. They genuinely care."

He was silent for a moment, unnaturally serious, and turning his gaze away, he said, "Not everyone is like your parents, Sam."

The question "_So that's the real reason_?" hung in the air, unasked and yet still answered.

~…~

"You okay, Danny?" Jazz asked in an undertone. "I know you're not exactly comfortable with this yet."

He'd only been half-listening to the medical and scientific jargon falling from his parents' and Sleejaw's lips, and his eyes flitted to his sister, who was sitting next to him on the long metal table.

"Yeah," he said honestly, crossing his arms self-consciously over his scarred chest. She's seen them all, his parents have seen them all, and it wasn't like his arms were clear of marks, but he still felt the urge to hide those close to his center. The more vulnerable ones. Some distant part of him knew he should be proud of what those scars represented. He should be proud he'd survived this long, that he had learned, adapted, and became a pretty good fighter and defender in the process, but that distant part of him wasn't enough to stop him from feeling…_less_.

He shoved the self-deprecating thoughts aside and explained, "I was just thinking about how weird it is seeing the lab so empty."

"It's technically not a lab yet."

He rolled his eyes. She was right, of course, but since some equipment did make it to the new house during the initial drive down from Chicago, it was more a lab than it was a basement at this point as far as he was concerned. "Whatever it is, it's…kinda unnerving, how silent it is." Considering how the lab itself still unnerved him—he'd had far too many nightmares about being captured and experimented on for his edginess to disappear entirely, despite having spent most of the past three weeks hooked up to numerous machines in their old lab—he almost chuckled at the irony. "There's no humming."

"You know," Jazz mused, casting a quick look around the nearly-empty space, "you're right. I can't remember the last time there wasn't _something _humming in the background."

"At least it won't be long before something's humming or beeping..." He sighed suddenly. "Or blaring or shrieking or exploding again."

"No exploding, hopefully!" Dad butted in. He, Mom, and Sleetjaw had finally finished talking and had joined the two siblings. Winking at his children, he added, "Not yet anyway."

"As long as it's not the Portal," Danny joked in a wry tone. Realizing what he said a second too late, his mouth popped open in a gasp, and he hurriedly stuttered, "Oh, God, that—I wasn't thinking. Bad joke. Bad joke."

The light in Dad's eyes died and had grown solemn, and Danny cast his gaze to his lap, wishing he had bit his tongue. He jumped when Mom rubbed his shoulder. "You're fine, Danny," she comforted, "and you're right. If the city still wants live coverage of the Portal's activation, we're going to need to have even more precautions."

"I need to be there," Danny insisted.

He remembered what happened the first time this topic came up and winced again. There had been some yelling and fighting involved, and he didn't want a repeat of that. This time, she merely kissed his brow. "We'll talk about it later. Sleetjaw's dropped everything for you, you know."

"It was no trouble, I assure you, Great One!" Sleetjaw inserted with great passion.

He'd given up trying to persuade any of the ghosts from the Far Frozen to stop using the embarrassing title, but he still flushed. "Thanks for coming, Sleetjaw."

The ghost's lips stretched over his sharp fangs into some semblance of a smile. "No need to thank me, Great One! It is a great day if you are feeling well enough to morph. Are you ready to proceed?"

Nodding and lowering his arms from his chest, Danny sat perfectly still as Sleetjaw lowered his massive bulk before him, and he didn't bat an eye as a massive paw pressed against his bare chest. The yeti-ghost's red eyes were overcome with a frigid blue glow, and his core jolted in response to the healing power Sleetjaw, whose core was kin to his own, was using to probe through his body.

Where it once burned like a thousand wasp stings, the weird energy-exchanging examination now made his heart race, electrifying and exhilarating, and he closed his eyes, only to open them and feel his own spectral energy blazing through his veins. It was cold—freezing, even—but it was _his_.

God, had he missed it. He'd hardly felt himself without it.

"His eyes are brighter," Mom mentioned.

"He's in the room," Danny murmured under his breath, but he was grinning too wildly for his words to sound bitter, which had all too often characterized his tone during previous sessions over the course of his frustrating recovery period. He'd heard time and time again from Sleetjaw that glowing was a good thing. Apparently, brightness and purity of the color were indicative of core health.

Sure enough, Sleetjaw rumbled, "There is no longer a taint to your core, Great One." The yeti-ghost's power receded, as did the vibrant blue glow in his red eyes. Danny's own green glow died seconds afterward. "Miraculous, how fast it has regenerated. Were you full ghost, you would have never recovered your form, but your human half is strong."

Danny shifted, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Mom flick her gaze upward. Feeling understandably self-conscious—he knew she'd been staring—he reached for his shirt. Tugging it on with hasty, jerky motions, he asked, "You think I'm good to go ghost, Sleetjaw?"

"We shall see. It is important we ensure the stability of your powers first."

And so they did. They tested intangibility and invisibility for awhile, focusing on parts of his body, his whole body, and then reaction time. It was a breeze for him, and he felt no discomfort with his parents in the room. They'd witnessed these particular powers time and time again over the past few weeks: of all this powers, these two had glitched out the most often.

Summoning ecto-energy was another thing entirely, though.

When asked to demonstrate this particular power, the familiar, tingling, pins-and-needles sensation laced through his core and down his arm, where the energy collected and flared into being in his palm. The moment the green flame-like power manifested, Mom swallowed a gasp and looked about a second away from rushing over to him.

"It's fine, Mom," he said gleefully, displaying his glowing hand. "It doesn't hurt me. It actually just feels…like my hand fell asleep. Except it's colder and less…annoying."

"That's amazing," Dad breathed, unable to keep the awe from his voice. Mom could only offer a sheepish smile.

From that point on, they continued to observe, occasionally asking hesitant questions, as Danny formed ectoplasmic and ice blasts alike. That he was capable of using his powers like this in human form was a good sign, though he had to admit that it was becoming more and more of a challenge to do so as Sleetjaw's requests started to require more control or more energy.

"Your stamina has decreased," the yeti-ghost explained. "You merely need to train, as you would your human muscles."

"Thought so," Dad said.

"It's always been more difficult in this form," Danny admitted breathlessly. "But since my last…erm…"

"Growth spurt," Jazz supplied. "He jumped from a Class 6.5 to 7.3 overnight, it seemed. Some boundary was reached, and it became easier after that, right, Danny?"

Danny nodded. "Still not as easy as when I'm Phantom, but yeah, easier."

"Easier," Dad repeated slowly.

"Great One?" Sleetjaw interceded, catching Danny's attention. "I am fully confident in your ability to morph successfully this time. Do you feel strong enough to do so?"

Danny, still panting, massaged his twinging ribs. "Yes."

"Danny—"

"No," he interrupted in a firm tone, "I need to do this, Mom."

Sleetjaw bowed his head, unaware that his mom was biting her lower lip and exchanging a worried look with Dad behind his back. "Then let us see, Great One."

Of course, in the face of the permission Danny just received from his ghostly medic, his previous excitement was nowhere to be found. Panic and dread rooted him to the spot, his throat seizing and stomach performing an endless free-fall. It was stupid, he knew that. They'd already _seen _him change from ghost to human. Under Sleetjaw's supervision, they'd already seen him try to transform, too. They'd seen him _melt_, and they'd pumped him full of ectoplasmic nutrients or whatever. They'd seen _the _scar—the first one, from the Portal, the one that was unlike the others (1). They'd seen him demonstrate his powers.

That meant they already knew that he wasn't…entirely human. They already knew, but this time they'd be seeing their son transform into Phantom, and that, somehow, was _different. _

This felt final. This was the final confirmation that it was all _real_ and wasn't just some…distant dream.

He wouldn't put it past Nocturne, honestly, and if Desiree and Vlad were somehow involved, too—well, no surprise.

It was far too silent in the lab. They were waiting. His parents' eyes, teal and indigo, had not lost their uneasy gleam, but now that they saw he was determined to do this, both pairs of eyes were soft and comforting, loving and supportive...

Jazz was the one who ultimately encouraged him on. Like the others, she watched him, but she was the only one completely at ease. Calmness and acceptance exuded from her small smile, and when she caught his eye, she inclined her head.

_When you're ready, go ahead, _she told him without words.

So, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he went ahead.

The beams of light popped into existence and washed over him, dousing his entire body in a wave of cold. There was no burning, no pain, and his lips twisted into a victorious smile of their own accord. The rush of energy died in the blink of an eye, and his feet left the floor. Now floating, weightless and free, he opened his eyes.

Mom was there, right in front of him, extending a gentle hand. It took all of his self-control not to flinch away or go intangible, but when she brushed his white bangs from his eyes and cradled the side of his face, he leaned into her hand and released a shaky breath. She didn't say anything, but he knew he made the right move after she broke into a bright, teary smile and tugged him into a hug. "Thank God," she murmured into his hair. "Thank _God_. I don't think I could have borne to see my baby…no, not again. You hear me, Daniel? Never again. _Never again_."

This was the first time he'd seen her break down since the Shift, and it scared him. "I'm alright, Mom," he responded, echoey voice cracking. "I'm fine." His gloved fingers fisted into his mom's jumpsuit as Jazz joined the hug, forcing him to plant his feet on the ground, and he didn't care that he was crying when he looked up over their shoulders toward Dad, who approached with an even wider, prouder smile than Mom's and laid a broad hand on his son's shoulder. Danny laughed giddily.

Reality wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

(1) Lichtenberg Scar headcanon right there.

**AN: **Not gonna lie: that Maddie-Danny hug was inspired by Hiccup and Valka's reunion in DreamWorks' How To Train Your Dragon 2. I adored that scene in the movie. xD

Just a reminder that this is the last chapter I have pre-written, so my updates will be far more sporadic and less timely. Thank you so much for reading!

Oz out.


	7. The Interview

**AN: **Well, this obviously didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would!

Realism took a bit of a hit here. I'll be the first to admit that. I have _no _idea how often something…like what I wrote here is conducted on a local news station. It probably never happens at all. It ended up being more of a talk-show-host-interview than anything, in my opinion. I hope you enjoy it, all the same. :)

Another thing I need to mention: I have a headcanon that there are different types/races/species of ghosts. As in, not all of the entities in the Ghost Zone were once living humans. I just wanted to make that clear.

I also need to thank **dreamsweetmydear**, whose oneshot **"Flip Turn"** inspired a part of this chapter. The idea of Danny helping restless spirits move on obviously stuck with me after I beta'd **"****Flip Turn"** for her, and I loved it so much I had to include it in here. Credit for that section of the dialogue goes to her. The oneshot, by the way, is phenomenal, and I highly recommend it!

And another huge thank you to **ErinNovelist **and **dreamsweetmydear** for putting up with me when I was trying to write this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Six: The Interview**

"We're leaving," Pamela snapped, passing by the door to Sam's room.

Sam, far too fixated on the wights on her laptop screen to fully register her mother's words (1), only grunted in her vague direction. It wasn't long before her mother backtracked and demanded, "Samantha, did you hear what I said?"

Irritated, Sam clicked the pause button, yanked the headphones from her ears, and spun in her chair. The wights were now popping out of the snow and being generally awesome_, _and since she did not like pausing during scenes this intense, even if she'd already watched this particular episode a few times over, her only thought was that this had _better _be important. "_What_?"

"We are leaving."

Sam scowled and whirled back around. Moving to put her headphones back in, she grumbled, "Good for you. I guess I'll see you later."

"This isn't up for discussion."

Sam quirked a brow and wryly leaned back into the chair, crossing her arms. One of her ear-buds fell into her lap. "I didn't realize I'd be joining you on this mystery venture."

"Of course you are," her mother stated. "Now get dressed."

"Where are we going?"

"Just get dressed, Samantha."

Sam looked down at her black camisole and purple sweatpants, shrugged, and pulled on the black sweatshirt that was laid across the back of her chair. Too lazy to so much as zip it halfway, she displayed herself. "I'm dressed."

A critical, disapproving eye ran over her choice of attire, and Sam rolled her eyes. "Your fault for not giving me some warning here," she snapped as she stood. "I was perfectly happy to spend my night in Westeros (2)."

Much to her surprise, her mother did not argue.

That was the first warning sign.

Clucking her tongue, she snatched Sam's arm and tugged her from the room. Sam sighed and took one last, longing look at her abandoned laptop before she was practically dragged down the stairs. Sam's grandmother sat bottom of the stairs in her motorized wheelchair, her wrinkled face blank and purple eyes blazing.

That was warning number two.

"Quit your sighing," her mother ordered, as though there wasn't an irate senior waiting at the bottom of the steps. "We were lucky to have even _heard _about this as early as we did."

"You going to let me in on where exactly it is you're dragging me off to?"

"We," she said dramatically, "are going to see my point proven."

"Pamela, this isn't going to prove anything!" Grandma Ida shouted as soon as she heard that. For such a seemingly frail woman, Sam's grandmother had an impressive set of lungs, and she'd obviously just been waiting for a chance to put them to use. "You will only see what you wish to see, and I will _not _listen to you go on and on about it! You have become obsessive! Enough is enough!"

"_Obsessive?!" _Sam's mother shrieked, releasing Sam. Her father, who had just entered the entrance hall from the kitchen, steadied her when she stumbled. "I'm trying to do what's best for the city! The boy is dangerous, uncontrollable and unpredictable, and if you think—"

"I don't think! I _know_!"

"THAT IS ENOUGH NOW!" Jeremy Manson exploded. "Pam, I swear I will ask our neighbors to take every last one of our cars on a free joy ride and strand you here with my mother. Don't!" he exclaimed when his wife opened her mouth. "Don't. I did not have to include you and Samantha, remember, and Mother…stop it. You're upsetting your granddaughter."

Having not expected to land in the middle of what looked like a warzone in what was _supposed _to be a time of tentative peace, Sam was more overwhelmed and disconcerted than she was upset, but before she could so much as scowl, her dad continued, "And the only reason I agreed to this is because _you _agreed this is for observation _only_. We are going to see what he has to say—because he might actually say something important. We are _not_ going there to make a scene or gain _ammunition_."

Sam had an incredibly bad feeling about this, but her mind had trouble processing everything that was being said. "Where are we going again?" she asked for what had to be the third time.

"I managed to get us VIP seats in the studio audience for Lance Thunder's interview of Danny Fenton tonight," he explained. He glanced at his wristwatch. "And we'd better be going soon."

"What?" Sam breathed, a tumultuous wave of emotion washing over her. This was _huge._ Danny actually agreed to do an interview? But…how…why…? "Since when did—?"

"It was last minute," Pamela injected. There was a spiteful smile on her face that made Sam want to hurl. "He's likely to incriminate himself, and I don't want to miss it."

Horror and surprise was overcome with a fierce rage. For all that she wished she could spit expletives left and right, for all that she wished she could shout, "I met the guy, and I might have only spent a few minutes with him, but I know he's more unassuming than a majority of people in this godforsaken city," she knew that would only lead to disaster. Frustrated and beyond consolation, she grit her teeth and growled, "You're wrong."

Three pairs of eyes fixated on her with varying degrees of anger and confusion. Pamela, of course, was the first to say anything. "You don't speak like that to me, Samantha."

"I'm sick of this, Mother! I'm so fucking sick I can't even—"

_"Samantha,_" her father warned. "I could leave you behind, too."

Stewing with fury, Sam cut herself off, though her glare was easily read. _I'll only behave if _she_ does. _Grandma Ida took hold of her hand, and after exchanging a look with her grandmother, the teenager averted her eyes and huffed, "Fine."

"I don't want to hear any fighting on the way back," Jeremy said sternly, looking between his wife and daughter. "We are going to listen to what the boy says, we are going to think about it, and then we are going to have a talk. Like the mature people we are. Without yelling, without screaming, and without—" he shot a sharp look at Sam "—cussing."

_You've got some high hopes there, Dad, _Sam thought. She appreciated what he was trying to do, but she didn't need to be a genius to know that this was not going to end well. They could have all easily stayed at home to watch this interview on TV instead of actually getting _into _the studio, so there was obviously some ulterior motive here that she wasn't aware of.

Or her dad genuinely wanted them to behave while Danny Fenton talked. That was it. Right there. What a manipulative move! Forcing them into public to watch this interview _would _force them to behave. In a more private setting, they'd likely argue through the entire thing and get into another huge fight, in which each of them would continously pick quotes from the interview and twist Danny's words to suit their interests.

This was probably the only time her father's insistence to play mediator worked out for all of them.

"And don't even think of singling the boy out. Any of you," Ida warned, waving a crooked finger at them and interrupting Sam's silent appreciation for her father's craftiness.

Her dad's motives were a lot easier to decipher than her grandmother's. Sam did not understand her Grandma's fondness for Danny Fenton—there really was no apparent reason _why_, but she protected him with a ferocity that would make mama grizzly bears jealous; Sam suspected it was just because the crazy old bat loved to stir up trouble…or it could have something to do with what that infamous fortune-teller predicted for her in her youth—but despite that, the teenager was grateful for steady support from at least one family member.

"I'll be watching it all here, and if you embarrass me or the boy…" Grandma's voice dropped into a croaking whisper, "…my trusty blow-dryer and I will be waiting for you, in the dark, when you get your sorry _tokheses_ (3) home."

If there were two things the Manson family knew, it was that 1) you never messed with, touched, or so much as _looked at_ Grandma Ida's sweet tea if you knew what was good for you and 2) you must take Grandma Ida veryseriously when she threatened to bring out her trusty blow-dryer.

The Mansons did nothing but participate in small talk (or in Sam's case, stare out the window and combat with her growing curiosity) the entire way to the news station.

~…~

"This is an outrage," Mom muttered.

Danny eyed the chattering studio audience with cautious blue eyes. He wasn't wearing anything particularly constraining—just a charcoal grey long-sleeved shirt and slim black jeans—but he felt as though he was suffocating all the same. "It's not like we can ask them to leave," he muttered, unconsciously retreating further into the shadows behind stage. "He probably assumed we'd know."

"It still wasn't right of them to nothing about it," Jazz complained. "Just be sure to watch yourself. This Lance seems completely..."

She didn't have to fill in the appropriate description. There wasn't really a single word to describe the ditz, but he wasn't Amity Park's prized public figure for nothing. When Danny'd been dragged off to shake the hands of countless crewmembers and staff (under the close supervision of several security guards, of course), there wasn't a single one of them who didn't assure him that he was in good hands—the _best_ of hands. _There's no one better to do your first public interview, Mr. Fenton_, they had said. Lance Thunder had seemed quite flustered by their praise, his charisma blinding and cheerfulness nearly contagious.

Inwardly, however, the teenager knew he had been right to prepare for some inadvertently insensitive questions.

He had to give the guy some credit: he _tried. _That much was obvious. After going over a vague outline of some topics he _might _like to cover with Danny, he did explain that he wanted this interview to feel as natural as any thirty-minute-long conversation between old friends would, and he seemed to want nothing more than for Danny to feel as though he was at home.

For all that Lance attempted to make him feel welcome and calm, though, he ended up doing the exact opposite, especially now that Danny knew he was going to have more eyes on him in the studio than he'd anticipated. "I'll do my best."

"I know you will," she responded.

Mom was fussing at his cotton shirt, pulling the shoulders straight and smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, and she said, "Remember, Danny, you don't have to answer anything you don't want to, and if he is being an insufferable fool, don't be afraid to call him out on it, and—"

"He'll be fine, Maddie. Let him breathe!" Dad exclaimed with a deep chuckle. Danny felt an immense surge of gratitude toward his father, who gently pulled Mom away and winked at Danny. "He's given speeches before legions of ghost armies! I think he can handle this."

"Can't compare the two, Dad," Danny mumbled under his breath.

Public speaking never particularly bothered him. In front of ghosts, at least. They did not judge on character so much as they did on more simple things. Like power, for instance. Power was measured by how well a ghost protected his or her haunt or by how large said haunt was. Simple enough, right? The ghosts might have hated him for his particular abnormalities, but Danny had gained respect as a fighter, a defender of not only the Human World but also the Ghost Zone, and by some consensus he couldn't really comprehend, they deigned to him during the recent crisis.

He knew where he stood with the ghosts. The ghosts knew where they stood with him. Everyone accepted that without fuss. Humans? Humans were far more complicated than ghosts, and the true question became: what respect did Fenton have that wasn't given through Phantom?

None. These people didn't _know _him. That was why this interview was far more stressful than any speech he could have given in front of his ghost allies. That was why this fear was different than the fear he experienced when the weight of two worlds rested on his shoulders.

"We're on in ninety seconds!" came a call from a mysterious somewhere.

The studio audience, having already been prepped and fully seated, lowered their volume, and though he was out of sight, Danny could make out several necks craning in his direction. His throat was incredibly dry, and he really wished he had a bottle of water.

"Alright there, Danny?" Lance asked, popping up from behind the Fenton family unannounced. "Remember your cue?"

It wasn't an entirely hard one to remember, and he said so, hardly registering the voice escaping from his mouth as his own. Lance laughed, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and sauntered into position.

"You'll do great, son," Dad said. "Knock 'em dead."

"That's probably the last thing they want me to do, Dad," Danny quipped under his breath, his eyes seeking out the silent security guards standing nearby. Fenton equipment, in addition to human defense weapons, hung from their belts. "What they want is a _show_."

"Sixty seconds!"

After inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, he closed his eyes. _Just be yourself, Fenton, and they'll get their show, if not the one they're expecting. _He nearly snickered when that shitty piece of advice to himself fluttered into his brain. He could only imagine the shock they'd get when they realized their real-life superhero was actually a huge cheese-ball.

This actually might be quite amusing. This…he really had been looking at this all wrong. Hadn't he longed for an opportunity like this? Hadn't he always wanted to show them? To tell those who already had some preconceived notion of who Phantom was and who Fenton was that they were _wrong _and that _he_ was someone completely different?

The answer was yes. Yes, he most certainly had been waiting for something like this. Ever since they had first uttered the stupid nickname Inviso-Bill, he'd dreamt of this moment. Sure, he hadn't anticipated he'd have such a big audience, but all the same, remembering how it once was for him—how carefully he had had to hide his secrets and how he had wished he could just _scream _them into the sky… it sent a rush of calm resolve through him, blanketing a majority of his pessimism and nervousness as it went.

"Thirty seconds!"

There was a noticeable hitch in the collective whispers echoing in the room, and when he lifted his gaze toward the audience this time, he caught sight of none other than Sam Manson, who was flanked by a blond man in a sweater-vest and a woman with the most waspish expression he had ever seen. The entire Manson family had come, it would seem, and quite unsurprised, he tried to ignore Pamela Manson and focus on Sam.

Yet another reason to feel both anxious and courageous. This was just as much about his allies—both human and ghost—as it was about him, after all. That's the real reason why he was here.

"Ten!"

The lighting changed rather abruptly, almost blinding Danny, and from behind the camera, the guys were now counting down on their fingers. He squinted at their countdown, blinking rapidly and hardly registering the encouragements from his family members, and all too soon, they were on.

He was still blinking away the floating spots in his eyes when an irritated backstage worker came up behind him and jabbed toward the taped 'X' he was supposed to be standing on. No sooner had he stumbled there than he heard Lance say something about "a change in plans" and "a special night tonight indeed." A loud roar of applause followed the announcement of his name: Danny Fenton.

His cue to go. The lights were more bearable now on his sensitive eyes, and as he took his first step, he prayed that he wouldn't trip because _that _would be really embarrassing.

If anything, the noise coming from the audience swelled when he walked out before the cameras, and his stride shortened when he saw their silhouettes begin to _stand up_. It was their display of respect for his Phantom persona, of course, but a burst of pride and satisfaction rushed through him all the same. Despite himself, a smile grew on his face, and after realizing he'd nearly stopped walking and Lance was waiting for him behind his desk at the other end of the stage, he picked up the pace and acknowledged the crowd with a little wave.

He regretted it almost instantly because he was pretty sure it was an awful, dorky excuse for a wave. He was wrong; the crowd went _nuts_. They were still going at it when he finally reached Lance, who shook his hand again and greeted, "Welcome, Danny! It is great to have you with us tonight!"

"Thank you." Silence finally fell over the studio when he spoke, and as he took his seat in the armchair to his interviewer's left, he blurted the first thing on his mind. "I really wasn't expecting a standing ovation there."

Of course, this only caused a massive commotion, and Danny blinked stupidly over the cameras. He couldn't make out any faces behind the cameramen, and that bothered him. "If you're going to keep doing that, we're going to be here all night," he stated bluntly. Lance started laughing, shrugging, and mouthing something at the crowd. "There's no need for that, really. I'm not all that impressive."

Judging by their reaction, they seemed quite affronted by that, and Danny wondered if any of his classmates back in Chicago were watching this now and kicking themselves or just gaping in utter disbelief. Lance looked most upset of them all. "I doubt all these lovely people would be here if they thought that, Mr. Fenton!" the blond exclaimed. "Am I right, ladies and gentlemen?"

"No, no," Danny stuttered when the audience responded with more cheers and began to stand once more. "It's alright. Thanks, though. I really do appreciate it."

"And speaking of appreciation," Lance said smoothly, leaning forward into his chair, "you have two worlds that owe you an enormous debt of gratitude for what you did to prevent the Ghost King's return."

"I did what I had to do," he said meekly. "As did everyone who helped me defeat him. My parents, the Chicago Police and Fire Departments, the scientists of DALV and Axion Labs...all the ghosts that could fight before they succumbed to Dark's powers, the tacticians and strategists…" Danny's face lit into a smile, and he forgot about everyone else sitting there in favor of the ghosts and humans he met and fought with. "Man, we had a few Roman dictators and Revolutionary War commanders on our side, and they were _amazing._ I almost wish…"

"That you could have asked them to stick around for help on your History homework?" Lance joked with a roguish wink. "I bet my daughter wouldn't mind that, either."

The crowd laughed, and Danny felt horrified and then downright sickened at these people's utter ignorance. The mere _thought _of using his friends like that made his eyes flash. He had the presence of mind to angle his head so that any green filtering through his blue irises would not be seen. It was an old trick, one that had gotten him out of trouble time and time again.

"No," he said, his tone as collected as he could manage. _They don't know any better, _he repeated to himself. "These particular ghosts—There are races, I suppose you can say. Like humans, kinda. I won't get into it because it would take ages to explain, but these ghosts I mentioned are called spirits: wandering souls of deceased humans who got lost on their way. No matter who they were in life, no matter what they had done, all of them are benevolent in nature, hardly capable of maintaining a form. They have little memory of their past, but they remember what matters… because in the end, the only thing they want is to complete the one good deed they didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't complete in life and _move on_. "

Lance looked about ready to interrupt, but Danny wasn't about to let him. "That's the best part of being Phantom."

_That got his interest, _the teen thought distastefully. "I'm not sure I understand," the interviewer said, perking up. "I thought sending ghosts back into the Ghost Zone would be a fulfilling enough job to take on?"

"Do you honestly think that getting beat up by ghosts on a daily basis is where I find my fulfillment?" Danny asked dryly. A few snickers erupted from beyond the camera-line. "No, the spirits who joined us…they had either died on the losing side of a war or died before they could see their side win, and…"

"You helped them move on," Lance filled in, comprehension dawning in his eyes, "by recruiting them to our side and winning the war."

Danny nodded. "You can imagine that they were noble people and only wanted to be a part of a noble cause."

"As you are?"

Danny caught Lance's pale, twinkling eyes, and his fervor died down as he realized that, somehow, the conversation had returned to him. "Me? Noble?" He snorted. "Depends on who you ask, I guess."

"It takes a noble person to take the time to help those spirits, no?" Lance smiled.

Now that his anger had dissipated, Danny felt a little uncomfortable under such close scrutiny. The reawakened awareness of the crowd's presence did not help. "It's what anyone would do. You know," he mused with a sheepish smile, "this was kinda a weird way to start an interview."

"Nah, the least we can do for you in exchange for your heroism is let you speak your mind!"

Danny shifted in his chair so that he sat nearly at the edge, elbows resting on his knees. Somewhere, behind stage, his mother and Jazz were appalled by his posture. "Look, the whole point I was trying to make bringing up those spirits was that, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not the hero here. The ghosts, the humans who took part—_they're_ the heroes. I wouldn't be here now without them…and neither would any of you, for that matter."

"They all played an instrumental part—I'm sure we all agree—" Lance nodded solemnly "—and our hearts go out to them, but, Danny, don't shortchange what it is you have done. It was you who ultimately led these people, and these ghosts, into the battle and you who struck the final blow."

Danny was saved from responding when Lance turned away from him and called, "Linda? Will you roll the clip?"

He jerked upright. He knew what it was, and he didn't want to watch it. He never did want to watch it, but whenever it was played on TV, he couldn't help but track Pariah Dark's every move. Chills automatically erupted down his spine, and he forced himself to sit still as he watched himself battle with the Ghost King, nearly kill himself, and then revert back into human form. Danny hoped that a warning for viewer discretion had popped up at one point or another.

There must be something wrong with him. The audience was whooping for him, and here he was, feeling numb and nauseous.

_They don't know any better, _Danny reminded himself._ But they don't need to know this._

He realized he'd missed half of what Lance was saying and twitched a little when he snapped out of the zone. "…much speculation going around about what really happened up there on the Tower."

Danny furrowed his brow. He wasn't talking about how the plan went awry. He probably wasn't even referring to how exactly it was he beat Pariah Dark. Everyone already knew all this from his parents' press conferences. Uncertain of what else to say, he commented, "Well, I nearly died."

"It is true, then?"

"Um, yeah?" Danny tried very hard not to stare at him like he had grown two heads, and chuckling a little, he joked, "Channeling that much energy wasn't exactly a walk in the park."

"Oh, I never meant to imply that it was!" Lance was quick to assure, Danny's dark humor completely lost on him. "Your recovery was a long and grueling process, I'm sure."

"Living through it once was enough, I think. I'm on the mend, and that's what matters."

"And we are all glad of it, Danny. We are very glad," Lance confirmed. "No, I was wondering if it was true—that someone like you…"

_No fucking way is this how he's bringing this stuff up. _"Someone like me," Danny repeated. "Listen, I'm not exactly sure what's been said about me, but I'm sure it's wrong because hell, I don't even have the right answers. We're working on that. All you need to know is that I'm _human_, and when I'm Phantom—yes, it is me, and no, I don't have separate entity living in my head; I know _that's _something I needed to clear up once and for all because I've heard that a lot, and that's just…no."

More laughter. The Phantom side of him flared up again, and he rolled his eyes when Lance agreed, "I can imagine why that's not your favorite theory, Danny."

"I don't know why it would be _anyone's _theory," he mumbled. "When I'm Phantom, I'm nothing more and nothing less than me. I have a heartbeat, I need to breathe, I can bleed out, and yeah, I can die. I'm just a little more durable, heal a bit faster…and have some ghostly attributes."

That was all they needed to know. He didn't tell them that, when in ghost form, he had a heart rate of about 15-20 bpm. They didn't need to know that he only needed to breathe once every few minutes, either, and there was no way in hell that he was going to tell them about his human form's medical eccentricities. He hoped what he _did_ say was enough to satisfy them.

"I have heard," Lance said, his eyes wide with fascination and delight, "that the ghosts call you halfa. Half-human-half-ghost."

"Yes," Danny conceded cautiously. "I'm sure you've heard hybrid and half-breed, too."

"And Twice-Born."

Danny stiffened in his chair. How could Lance know that? The audio for that clip was so horrendous that it rarely ever accompanied the clip itself. Besides that, no one but Danny himself could have heard Pariah Dark call him that. He didn't even think his parents or Jazz heard it, and they were on the Tower with him.

It shook him just as much as it had the first time he heard it.

"That is probably the most curious epithet of them all, I must say," Lance mused. "And that right there, Danny, is the question that's been burning in our minds since the Shift. You made your big debut as Phantom just over a year ago, in a fight against a raging meat monster at your high school. Before then? Well, all superheroes have their origin story. Would you mind telling the world of yours?"

He'd been expecting this question, but his heart rate sped up all the same. The pressure of everyone's eyes on him was insane. "It was an accident," he hedged, forcing a laugh. "A comic-book-stereotypical lab accident. How else?"

"Aw, come on!" Lance complained in a good-natured tone. "You can't give us anything more than that?"

"I could, but I'm not going to." When mutters and complaints resounded around him, he shrugged. "I've discussed this with my parents, and I—what happened to me…it's not something I would wish on anyone."

The interviewer nodded sympathetically. "It must have been very painful, falling into a steaming vat of ectoplasm."

Danny was more amused by the guy's obvious attempt at manipulation than he was upset about the utter disregard for his decision not to speak of it. "Nice try, Lance, but I'm not budging on this."

"I suppose it was worth a shot. Or was that it? You got hit by a malfunctioning Fenton ecto-weapon!"

Snorting now, Danny shook his head. "If that were the case, my entire family and then some would have the same powers I have. Burns are almost guaranteed when you don't know how to handle those things." He offered Lance a thumbs-up. "A for effort, though."

If Lance was disappointed, he didn't really show it. Danny, however, saw that excited, energized gleam in his eyes, and he doubted he'd back off. He doubted anyone would back off now. "Maybe one day, I'll be able to talk about it," Danny admitted, "but since we honestly don't know enough about what happened, we don't want to go around encouraging …Well, I'm sure you understand that we're only trying to protect people who think they know better than we do. Besides, it's easy enough to fill in some of the blanks."

"Don't go playing around in highly dangerous, anti-ghost laboratories is the main message here, I am assuming."

Danny cringed, memories of acidic green and electrifying pain jumping to the forefront of his mind. He shoved them away and smirked half-heartedly. "Something like that."

"Alright," Lance said courteously, "if we cannot discuss that part of the 'how,' then you can perhaps tell us a little bit more about what happened after your accident."

"There isn't much to say, really. I thought I'd gone insane. I mean, it's not everyday you wake up and see you're _glowing_."

"You woke up as Phantom after your accident? Twice-Born, indeed."

Danny pretended not to have heard that last comment. It was less demeaning than any of the other things he'd been called, but it felt too personal, too close for comfort. If Lance fully understood what it meant—what it _really _meant—he might have been a little more accepting, but he wasn't about to go telling people what it meant to him. He doubted he could even explain it to his family. He doubted he could even talk about it with the only two other halfas in existence, as they…they were not like him. Not exactly. (4)

When Danny didn't respond, Lance empathized, "I would probably have run screaming from the house if I woke up like that."

Grateful for Lance's prompt topic adjustment, Danny brushed away his previous thoughts and chuckled. It was easier to talk about this stuff than he expected, and without feeling a shred of embarrassment, he confessed, "Oh, don't worry. I think I passed out when I saw my reflection. Reverted right back to human form, though, so for the rest of the night, I was convinced it was all just a bad dream."

"So how did you figure out it was permanent? Did you learn to control the transformation by yourself?"

"No. I had my sister, Jazz, to keep me sane."

"Did she witness your accident?"

"Oh, God, no. She would have killed me if she was home and knew I was sneaking around in the lab without supervision. No, I almost…well, the morning of my accident, my parents left for some convention at the University of Wisconsin, and she was spending the day with some old friends. She stayed over with them, and by the time she came home the next morning, I was very aware that my accident _hadn't _been a bad dream. I kept changing back and forth, losing sight of my hands… She walked through the front door, and I wasn't really able get it out, you know? She was still in denial about ghosts—and she'll admit it, too—and I had no idea how to explain what was going on. I almost decided to run right out on her then and there, but then I started falling through the floor."

"You're kidding," Lance deadpanned. "You're joking with us, aren't you? It was really that bad?"

"What? Did you think having a ghost-form super-glued to you was going to be glorious and glamorous?" Danny shook his head and crossed his arms. "Heck no. Huge learning curve."

"Well, you certainly have command of your powers now."

"Only thanks to Jazz." Danny smiled, happy to give credit to his sister and pour on the praise. Maybe she'd chill out a little more if he was super flattering. "I'd've been a wreck without her help. If I told my parents then, I would have been even better off."

"Okay, I have to ask this. I have to." Lance _wiggled _in his seat like an excitable puppy, and it set Danny on edge immediately. "Is it possible…you could give us, ah, a _demonstration?_"

The crowd's agreement was astounding. For a second, Danny didn't comprehend what he was asking, and when it hit him, he couldn't decide if he wanted to go invisible and walk out just to spite everyone in the studio or if he wanted to glare in silence. Taking a deep breath, he eventually narrowed his eyes. "Even if I wasn't still healing from the battle," he half-lied, "the answer'd be no. I'm not some prized show pony to be paraded around the state fair here."

Lance looked _crestfallen, _and from the sound of it, the audience was too. Danny almost felt guilty for being so harsh, and he relented a little. "I'm sure you'll spot me sooner or later," he guaranteed in a more friendly tone. "It's hard to keep me grounded for long."

The wounded puppy look disappeared, and Lance tittered, winking again. "Like to fly, do you?"

"It's not exactly a secret."

"Well, you and your sister kept your other secrets very well!"

"We had plenty of incentive. Flying…that's fun, but what I do is dangerous. I didn't only have to watch out for ghosts, you know. It was scary for awhile, I'm not going to lie. The Guys in White were still around then, and it doesn't take much to imagine what they would have done to me if they found out. With the ghosts coming out of the Zone in droves, I thought it'd be…safer. Understandably, I decided early on that not everyone would understand as easily as my sister...or my parents did."

"Yes," Lance agreed, "you managed to escape the Federal Anti-Ecto Control Act by the skin of your teeth, after all."

"Yup," Danny sighed, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and thought about the metal band he'd have to wear to school on Monday. "Even still, heartbeats aren't enough for some people."

"Ah, you beat me to it!" Lance exclaimed. "I was just going to broach this topic!"

Danny straightened in his chair. "Yeah?"

With twinkling eyes, Lance lowered his voice so that it adopted a dramatic timbre. "How does it feel to know that the entire world—from your fans to your foes—has learned that Danny Fenton is _the _Danny Phantom?"

He froze. Talking about feelings like that on live television? No thanks. Nope. That's where he drew the line. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stammered, "Um…I'm not sure how to answer that."

"Ah, I bet it's pretty surreal for you still. Waking up from mortal injuries and realizing your secret identity was a secret no longer must've been quite a shock, huh?"

"You could say that, yeah."

Bobbing his head, Lance did not press further—maybe there _was _some sensitivity and tact in the guy—and said, "Since we're nearly out of time here and I still need to ask you some mandatory questions about your truce with the Ghost Zone and the Fenton Portal's reactivation before we sign off, perhaps you'd rather answer this: how do you respond to your fans? Or those who, as you say, don't understand?"

This was the opening he'd been waiting for, and his gaze flashed from Lance to the silhouettes, in the direction of the Manson family. "To those who rooted for me since the beginning," Danny began, "and those who had fought for me to be here, to be an active member of the community…thank you. You guys have been fighting a battle of your own—one that I was too sick to fight for myself—and it means a lot to me. I hope I'm worth all your efforts."

He ignored the coos, sniffles, whispers, and whoops, and a faint smile touched his lips. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough for now. He would find Sam on Monday to thank her in person, but he felt a lot better knowing that he, at least, showed his appreciation to the world.

"And to the others, Danny?" Lance pressed. "What do you say to those that aren't exactly pleased with your presence here in Amity?"

"I can only hope I prove myself to them—er, you. You, sorry." His face flushed, but he didn't turn from the cameras, looking those who were watching dead in the eye. "If not, that's okay." He shrugged. "I'm not going to beg or plead for your acceptance. I never have and never will. You believe what you believe, and I'm not going to waste your time or my time trying to change that. It doesn't matter in the end. The ghosts you might have seen so far…they are nothing. This is only the beginning. I don't mean to scare anyone, but that's reality. The Shift happened, and Amity is the hot spot now. When the upper-level ghosts start coming out of the Zone, I'm going to keep doing what I do best, whether you like it or not."

* * *

(1) Wights: dead bodies reanimated by the Others (A.K.A. White Walkers) in HBO's Game of Thrones (George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire _series)

(2) Westeros: the name of the main continent in Game of Thrones/ASOIAF

(3) Yiddish for "butts"

(4) This is in reference to the differences between how Danny, Vlad, and Dani became halfas. I think HappyLeifEricsonDay wrote a great oneshot on this subject. (**Portals: **#14 in "Shots in the Dark")

* * *

**AN:** I hope it lived up to expectations, and I hope I can chug out several more chapters before school starts. I'm still stunned I got this to you as quickly as I did, lol. Thanks for reading, and apologies for all mistakes. Do let me know if you catch any glaringly obvious ones!

Oz out.


	8. The Present

**AN:** Hi, all. :) I apologize that this one took some time! Unfortunately, updates are most likely only going to become less and less common. I actually start school next week. Looking at the exam schedule they gave me at orientation, I can only promise I'll try my best to write in whatever little free time I'm going to have.

Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who's been reading, and thanks for your patience with me. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Seven: ****The Present**

Sam had about a million texts from Tucker by the time the interview was over. She swore the kid had to comment on everything, and after scrolling through a few of the messages, she realized she'd have to call him as soon as possible before he exploded or something.

After the influx of information, she didn't necessarily blame him. She wanted to talk about it too. With someone who didn't belong to her family, preferably. Surprisingly enough, however, said family had been on their best behavior. Sure, her mother had wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes a few times, but for the most part, she had been attentive and shockingly impassive as she listened. As for her father—Sam didn't have to worry. She'd caught him smirking in approval or bobbing his head in agreement every so often.

Seemed even he could appreciate Danny Fenton's somewhat dark sense of humor. Not everyone in that dumb audience did.

Even before they emerged from the crowded studio and into the cool night air, her parents had found several friends, including the mayor of Amity Park, and had begun to discuss the more serious things that had been brought up in the interview: namely Danny Fenton's warning about the upper-level ghosts, the Fenton Ghost Portal, the shields at Casper High, and the plans to put more shields around the city. Others from the audience formed a group and stood around, giggling, whispering, and craning their necks toward the doors. Sam assumed they were waiting for the ghost boy to emerge so that they could bombard him for autographs and pictures. Some were even dodging around the building, probably looking for less obvious exits.

Of course, there probably weren't enough brains between them to realize the guy could evade them if he really wanted to.

Sam caught her father's attention, waggled her IPhone, and pointed a finger around the bulky black OtterBox case toward a brightly lit spot around the corner of the building. There was a bustling strip mall just across the parking lot and down the tiny side street, but even with the amount of traffic over there, it would be quieter and more private than standing where she was now. Jeremy nodded and leaned out of the adults' conversation-circle to whisper to her, "Don't go too far. We shouldn't be long."

She doubted that. Their mayor loved to talk, and Pamela loved her minor details. They could easily be there for another half hour at least. She was already dialing Tucker's number and pressing the phone to her ear before she made it around the corner.

He picked up on the first ring. "Finally!" he groaned by way of greeting. "Where the hell have you been? I've been texting you and—"

"I was in the studio audience, Tuck," Sam interrupted. "I wasn't going to pull my phone out while they were talking. That's rude."

"Dammit, no way! And you didn't invite me?" he whined. "C'mon, Sam, what kind of friend are you?"

"It was last minute! I didn't even know this was happening at all until my parents were practically ready to leave. Mom dragged me away from _Game of Thrones_ and everything."

Tucker snickered. "She's lucky she didn't lose a hand or something." His tone became hesitant. "Wait, I'm not interrupting your marathon, am I?"

"No, you idiot. I called _you_, remember?" Sam snickered. There was a sigh of relief and an embarrassed "oh, yeah" from the other end. "I'm still downtown. Mom and Dad are being buddy-buddy with the mayor right now, so I took the chance to call you. This is more pressing than a _Game of Thrones_ rewatch, anyway."

"Damn straight! I still can't believe this kid is real, honestly."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, not sure what else to say. Her mind was still tumbling, and though she had told herself this wouldn't happen, though she told herself she'd keep her distance, her fascination with Danny Fenton—as the person he was, rather than the superhero others made him out to be—was undeniable.

"He totally had me cracking up," Tuck was saying. "Can you believe what he said to Lance Thunder when he asked him to show off his ghost powers?"

"Yeah, I actually can," Sam muttered, leaning against the glass of the building behind her. "I wouldn't want to be put on display like a zoo animal like that either. What I can't believe is that Thunder asked him in the first place."

"Well, Fenton sure showed him."

Sam smiled softly. "Yeah, yeah, he did. He called him out on a ton of stuff, and it was kind of awesome."

"It was priceless!" Tucker laughed. "Lance's _face_. How much you want to bet that his reaction will become a viral gif or a meme in the next twenty-four hours?"

That got Sam laughing. "I'm not betting a thing. You're so right. I'm surprised you haven't started posting stuff all over Reddit or something already."

She could almost _hear_ the smug, mischievous smile on his face. "Why do you think I made the bet?"

"Oh, God," Sam said. Interrupting him while he was doing stuff like this was as bad as interrupting her while she was book binging or marathoning her favorite shows. "I'm cutting in on your precious time with Photoshop!"

"Ah, dude, it's cool," Tuck assured. "Photoshop can wait. I need to know what you thought about his accident."

Sam knew Tucker had been theorizing about this since the Shift. She had tried not to…and failed. "What, you think the explanation he gave is bullshit?"

"Not exactly. I just think there's more to it."

Sam gnawed on her bottom lip. She remembered noting how subtly his posture had changed, how his dark hair had fallen into his crystal blue eyes, partially hiding them from view, and how his fingers had picked at his cuticles as he talked. "I think…He made one mistake, and now… I mean, he was joking about it, making fun of himself, but he obviously didn't want to talk about it. He was more open about his near-death experience during the Shift, and that had him recovering for three weeks. According to him, he popped right up after the lab accident. It must have been even more traumatic, if he's hiding the full story from people."

"Actually, if you think about it, he really didn't say much about what happened to him after the Shift either. He only seems more open about it because everyone already knows he was hurt pretty bad."

"He avoids details," Sam realized. "I don't blame him. I still feel awful whenever that stupid tape plays."

"Yeah, my mom can't watch it. She doesn't like watching any of the old battles they caught on film either. Never did. She always said it was because he's our age and stuff. Thought he died too young. Now that she knows he's actually human? Forget it."

A shudder ran down Sam's spine. The reminder did not sit very comfortably with her, and an intimidating surge of awe and horror made her gut clench. It wasn't that she _forgot_ necessarily, but it hit her hard every time, nevertheless.

"It's killing me, not knowing," Tucker continued. "I know it's none of our business, so don't give me that, but come on! He's a real-life superhero, and we don't even know his origin story! We really know _nothing_ about him. Even after all that."

"Nothing's stopping us from getting to know him, Tuck."

Tucker went silent for a second. "You actually said that."

"Yeah, so?"

"How do you plan to do that? We already know Dash is zeroing in on him. I bet the whole school wants to be his friend. For all the—I don't know what it is he has, but whatever it is, he's still pretty reserved. Everything considering, I highly doubt he just hands out his trust to people."

Sam shrugged and immediately felt stupid. Her friend couldn't see her. "I don't really plan to do anything, Tucker. I was just saying."

"Uh-huh. Your parents know you want to make friends with Danny Fenton?"

"Who I hang out with is my business, not theirs," Sam retorted. There was a chill in air. Shivering, she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and zipped her sweatshirt up. "They got used to you, didn't they?"

"Oh, ha ha," Tuck said. "Very funny, Sam. But seriously, you sure you don't just want to pepper him with questions about ghosts? About those spirits he brought up, maybe?"

He was teasing her, she knew, but this sparked her enthusiasm. "I wish he had more time to explain! It was so intriguing, wasn't it? Now that I do know that there are ghost races, I need to know more, Tuck. Do you think each race has its own mythology and culture? Or do you suppose they have more of a hodge-podge of different interpretations of the same legends and stories? And where do the less intelligent, more animalistic ghosts fit into the hierarchy? Is there a hierarchy? Are they civilized enough to have a form of government? I know they called Pariah Dark the Ghost King, but what was he to them, really? How does he fit into their history?"

"I have no clue, Sam," Tuck managed to get in, a grin in his voice. "I really hope the Fentons give lectures sometime soon. I'd come with you, just so that I can see your face when some of these questions you keep asking are answered."

"I'd love to sit in on a lecture," Sam sighed dreamily. "If not a lecture, then I hope they publish a book. Actually, speaking of books, wasn't Maddie Fen—"

The only warning Sam had was a little shriek, and that wasn't warning enough. Scared shitless by the unexpected noise, she flinched reflexively, cussing, "holyshitwhattheffffff…" as Jazz Fenton toppled out of thin air right next to her. Her phone went sailing away from her, and all Sam could do was watch it fly, jerk away from the glass she was leaning up against, and gawk.

"_Danny_!" Jazz hissed to the open air. "What are you doing? I thought you said—" She caught sight of Sam and blinked her large aquamarine eyes, looking for all the world like _Sam_ was the one who had appeared out of nowhere. "Oh, hi."

"Hi," Sam returned weakly.

"Shit," Danny's voice echoed nearby. Sam blinked, and he was suddenly there, looking a bit pale, exhausted, and worse for wear. He lurched forward, and a second later, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton popped into existence beside him, each holding one of his hands. They stumbled, too, and he released their hands to shoot a quick glare at his own. "That wasn't supposed to happen. I'm sorr—'eeeey there, Sam!" Some life came back to his glazed eyes. "Did not see you there. How's it going?"

Some vague part of her was surprised he remembered her name. "Smooth," she offered, glad to have found her voice again and to have regained some composure. He gave her a dorky grin and opened his mouth to respond, but she held her finger to her lips, effectively shushing him. "You know, I don't want to tell you how to do your job," she whispered, "but if you're trying to sneak out, it's best to actually stay invisible."

He barked a laugh. "Heh, that _was_ the plan."

"Plan failed," Jazz pointed out. She peered around. "It seems we're in the clear anyway. We can walk to my car from here without being caught. Honestly, you were worrying for nothing."

"Thanks, Jazz," came the sarcastic response.

"And you are _definitely_ not flying home by yourself, young man," Maddie Fenton scolded. "You've been pushing yourself too hard! You need rest!"

Danny's brow furrowed in frustration, and his eyes stared out into some world of his own. "I should have been able to do this without breaking a sweat," he murmured, disappointment clear in his tone.

"Danny…"

His shoulders slumped, and he ran his hand through his hair, forcing his bangs back. "I know," he sighed. Maddie Fenton's stern glare was vicious—Sam wouldn't be surprised if the older woman stared down feral ghosts with that very glare—but Danny didn't seem intimidated in the slightest. He threw his hands up in a sort of placating gesture. "No flying, I promise."

Mrs. Fenton relented. "You should have told us you weren't feeling well enough to walk so many people through the wall." She had said it as though it was the most normal thing, and for a brief moment, Sam wondered where the hell these astounding people came from.

"Yeah, and you're lucky it was just Sam here!" Jack exclaimed in a loud whisper. He beamed at her, leaned over, and plucked her phone off the sidewalk. "Someone else might have screamed and set the fangirls on ya!"

For no reason at all, she felt a burst of pride and—dare she say—warmth at his words. Danny's icy blue eyes flickered to hers, but she couldn't read them. "They're actually still swarming everywhere, and there's another group of people up front with the mayor," Sam said, taking her phone back from Mr. Fenton. The call with Tuck had ended, but the screen was flashing with multiple notifications about his attempts to call back. She winced, knowing he was probably freaking out. "Might want to hustle before they find you."

"Thanks, dear," Mrs. Fenton said with a warm smile. "We appreciate it."

"Yes," Jazz agreed. "It was nice seeing you again."

The other members of the family offered her some sort of farewell and turned to leave, but Danny continued to stare at her. A small crease had appeared between his eyebrows, and he looked like he wanted to say something. Whatever he was going to say to her, however, was interrupted by Jack, who took Danny by the shoulders, spun him around, and said cheerfully, "You can stare at pretty girls later, son. The only date you have tonight is with your bed."

She wasn't sure whose cheeks burned brighter: Danny's or hers. To his credit, Danny managed to shoot her an apologetic look over his shoulder before muttering something in a dark undertone to his father.

Sam watched them cross the dark parking lot, wondering exactly what the hell just happened. "They are so strange," she said to no one, and as her blush faded, a broad grin started to spread across her face. The entire family had a 'this-is-a-crazy-world-so-why-not-be-a-little-crazy-too' vibe, and she liked it. She liked it a lot.

"Who's strange?" Jeremy Manson said, peering around the corner and cocking a brow at her.

Sam froze when she saw Pamela following at her father's heels. Her mother's cat-like eyes narrowed in the direction the Fentons had gone, and Sam tried to distract her by nonchalantly changing the subject. "That was quick."

"I said it would be," her father said, eyeing her suspiciously. "Let's go."

Pamela didn't speak as they walked to their car, but Sam knew she was screwed. She had hoped she could keep her interactions with the Fentons secret for a little longer than half a day, but it seemed she was out of luck. With a sigh, she sent a quick text to Tucker explaining what happened. She promised to call him later and apologized profusely after receiving a response written in all caps. She hated blowing him off, especially after scaring him like that, but it was a good thing that she texted ahead of time because Pamela attacked the moment they were in the car.

"You met the Fentons."

It wasn't a question. "I did," she stated. "Twice."

Pamela swiveled in her seat and fixated her gaze on Sam while her father, who'd been backing out of the parking spot, jolted to a stop. Someone behind them wailed on the horn, but it went ignored. "_Twice_?!" he and she asked simultaneously.

"Yeah, twice, and I think they're fantastic."

"I don't want you _anywhere_ near them, Samantha."

"Mother…" Sam began.

"I mean it, Samantha! You stay away from them!"

Jeremy cautiously reached over to rub his wife's shoulder. "Pam, maybe—"

"Don't you start!" Pamela ordered, her tone less hysterical than usual. "Don't. I listened to the boy—I listened, just as you said—but I heard nothing but empty, arrogant words and an obvious threat to those who get in his way!"

"Oh my God, Mom, are you _blind_?!" Sam exclaimed. "It wasn't a threat!"

"And _what_, pray tell," her mother snapped, "did you think it was if not a threat?"

"It was a warning! He was actually being mature and pushing aside his personal feelings about all this! He just wants us to be prepared for the worst—to focus on what's really important!"

Her mother sneered. "Do you have any idea what's really important here, Samantha?"

Rage made Sam's blood boil, and she hissed, "I'm not a child. At any time now, a powerful ghost could enter our world. I understand that any of us could be hurt or killed in the crossfire. What I don't understand is why you won't let this go! Why won't you give them a chance?"

"They are dangerous, Samantha! And the boy…they boy is one of _them_."

"Danny isn't a ghost!"

"Samantha, do you think what he is will stop him from hurting those around him? Being near him is compromising your safety! He attracts the ghosts to him like a magnet. He is a freak!"

"He is not a freak!" Sam immediately defended. "It was an accident! A _mistake_. He made a bad choice, and he's accepted the full consequences. Do you think for one moment he wanted this to happen to him?"

"What matters is that it did happen! I never trusted Phantom, and I will not trust him anymore now that we know he was once fully human! There is such a thing as giving too much power to a single person, and this boy has _far_ too much!"

"Mom, he sacrificed his _life_ for us! You saw him today! Can you really imagine him doing anything to harm us intentionally?"

"Intentionally is the key word here, Samantha," Jeremy interceded cautiously. He had started to drive at one point or another. Sam hadn't noticed. "Your mother has a point. Ghosts can be controlled. Pariah Dark nearly succeeded in controlling them all."

"But he _isn't_ just a ghost. He's human, too!"

"You're missing the point."

"No, you're missing _mine_. You're so fixated on his ghost powers that you dismiss his humanity! Not everyone would use those powers as selflessly as he does!"

"But—"

"What if it was me that had the powers, Mom?" Sam interrupted, changing tactics. "What if it was Dad? What would you think of us then?"

Several painful seconds of silence elapsed before Pam said, "I'll never have to answer that question because it's never going to happen."

"Of course it isn't," Jeremy soothed. "We're not about to go poking around in the Fentons' lab."

"You're not getting within a hundred feet of those people at all," her mother agreed.

There was an ominous tone there, and Sam didn't like it at all. "_Those people_," Sam snarled, "know more about ghosts than anyone alive! We need to work with them, not against them! They are the only ones who can teach us how to defend ourselves!"

"Samantha!" Pamela bellowed, her voice cracking. "They can't even protect their _own_!"

Sam stiffened, and her anger gave away to utter disbelief and confusion as her mother's argumentative posture slackened and her voice lost all potency. "Don't you _see_?" she asked, almost desperately. "It's bad enough people are putting their faith in a _child_. Now we're expected to depend on the very people who neglected to keep their son safe from their own insanity?"

_She is afraid. She is deathly afraid of the future. Of change. Of them._

The realization was incredible, if only because Sam hadn't realized just how afraid her mother was. As Pamela took a few shaky, vulnerable breaths, the teen sat back in her seat, stunned.

They were nearly home before Sam spoke again. "I don't think, for one moment, there is a single one of them who doesn't blame themselves for something that could've gone better."

Sam saw her father's brow furrow and flicker to meet her eyes in the rearview mirror. "What does that—?"

"If you watched them—all of them, together, as a family—you'd see." They pulled into their neighborhood, and she turned to stare out into the window. House lights blurred by. "Have you ever thought about what they've been really doing over these past three weeks? Out of public eye?"

There was no response. Maybe they were ignoring her, rolling their eyes and giving each other exasperated looks. Maybe they were actually listening. She didn't want to look to find out and continued anyway, "I have no idea how they pulled through, but they did. They might not do things conventionally, they might have made some grievous mistakes, but if they can get through something like that… well—I think they can do a lot more good for us than we know."

The moment the car rolled to a stop in their driveway, Sam decided she had enough and wanted to retreat to her room. As she stepped outside, she added, "I'm not putting my faith in anyone who doesn't deserve it."

The car door slammed behind her.

~…~

_All he knows are the whispers and the darkness._

_The darkness is encompassing; it presses from every side, obscuring the senses and dulling confidence in his very individuality. He remembers he'd never been afraid of the dark—he cannot forget that; he will not forget that—but this darkness is different. This darkness is maddening, made only worse by the tantalizing bursts of green light in his peripheral vision. It is the green of the Ghost Zone. The green of spilt ectoplasm. He knows it is an endless green. Staring into it will surely trap him forever, yet he still searches for it. He aches for even the smallest pinprick of light._

_To escape this darkness, to escape these whispers, he'd do anything._

_The voices around him are closer, and he spins in a circle. Silver and white and red split through the darkness like lightning whenever the green light catches the glint of abandoned metal and shattered bone and lifeless eyes._

_He does not see whose eyes. He tries to run toward the bodies, but he cannot move fast enough. There are shackles around his ankles, and he cannot fly._

_A chill races down his spine, and he spins again, fear clambering up his throat. The murmurs surrounding him gush and ebb like ocean waves, brushing at the very edge of his consciousness. The only word he can make out…is the one he struggles not to obey._

_"…bow…"_

_The green lights begin to dance to a beat he can't perceive, and the suspense mounts when they twirl and whirl faster, cutting through more and more of the darkness with every pass. He sees the pale skin of the slain…and the enslaved. He sees crumbling buildings. Mostly, though, he sees teeth—fangs. Thin, cracking lips stretch over those fangs, and they loom closer._

_The light passes over the bodies sprawled over the ground. He can smell the blood now. He can feel it soaking him through._

_He thinks he catches sight of Sam's raven hair and purple eyes, and there is Mr. Lancer's intestines hanging from his belly. He recognizes his sister with half her head blown off. His mother and father have bruises encircling their necks, and they lean limply against each other. Lance Thunder wears a joker's grin and a collar of shredded flesh._

_He's not so sure he wants to escape the darkness anymore. He wishes he was nothing...and no one._

_The whispers are like bees buzzing in his ears, incessant and demanding, and a silent scream builds in his throat. He tries to close his eyes, he tries to cover his ears, but his hands don't respond to his will. He can only watch helplessly as the monster stalks him._

_"…boooooooow to meeeee…."_

_N-no…stay away…_

_The monster is much too close now. Much, much too close, and he strains and struggles and screams._

_"Haaaaaalf-breeeeeeeed…"_

_The monster's face flickers, and the Crown and Ring and shattered horns give way to red eyes and blue skin and flaming white hair. Back and forth, like a swinging pendulum, two monsters become one and the same._

_"…Oooooobey…"_

_There is a crushing force on his back, and he is forced to bow._

_The monster sing-songs his names. All of them. They echo across the wasteland. They taunt him, remind him of his failures and his weaknesses, and his heart races and head pounds and still he screams and screams at the chaos and destruction and death that surround him._

_"Twiiiiiiiice-Booooooorn…"_

_He finally finds his voice, and he kicks at the shackles constraining his feet. His hand flies from its constraints, and the weight on his back smashes him into the ground. "No! Get away!"_

_"Daaaannyyyy…"_

_"NO!"_

_"Danny!"_

_Something grabs his shoulder, and he twists, power blazing through his veins…_

"Danny!"

Danny's eyes shot open, and he yelped as his comforter twisted around his ankles. A large shadow hovered above him, and jolting upright, he immediately smacked his head against another skull. This, of course, only increased Danny's panic, and he started to flail his legs.

"It's me, Danno!" his father whisper-shouted. "It's just me."

Danny's heart was thudding so loudly he barely heard his father, but the familiar sound of his voice was enough to ground him to reality. _It was a dream_, he repeated to himself as he gulped down as much air as he could. _Just a dream_.

He flopped back and nearly hit his head on the nightstand, which led him to realize he was on the floor. He groaned a little in embarrassment. Of course he had to fall from his bed.

The noise he made must've sounded a little strangled. Or painful. Dad's expression was wrought with worry when he leaned over him.

Danny's sharp eyes, however, did not focus on his father's face: they latched onto Dad's wrist. The moment Dad noticed, he tried to hide it, but by then, the damage had been done.

"Oh, God, Dad," he whispered, scrambling upright. He clenched his hands—damn traitors—into the sweat-drenched sheets that had come down with him. "I didn't…I'm sorry. I normally don't…"

"It's nothing, son," Dad said. His smile didn't fit his face, and Danny realized this was the first time he'd been alone with his father in a very, very long time. "It doesn't matter. Forget about it. I need to know if you are okay."

His father's words brought the nightmare back, and Danny flinched, closed his eyes, and rubbed his clammy forehead with a trembling hand. He couldn't respond—not yet—and Dad lingered, unsure and concerned.

After a few tense moments, Dad offered, "I—I can get…I can get Jazz, if you'd like?"

Danny's eyes flew open, and he stared at his father, who was shuffling awkwardly. "No," he croaked. He got to his feet, only to sit heavily back down on the edge of his bed. His digital alarm clock, one of the few things he'd unpacked earlier, read 1:34 AM. "No, it's okay. Don't wake up Jazz. Or Mom. I'm fine."

When Dad nodded and rubbed at his wrist, he felt an overwhelming surge of guilt. "Here," he said, gesturing for his father to come closer. To his surprise, Dad did not so much as falter and sat right next to him on the bed.

Danny swallowed over a thickening lump in his throat when he saw the burn on his father's skin. "This…isn't okay. I'm not okay with this," he muttered. He was amazed that his father was even near him right now. He supposed he was disgusted enough with himself for the both of them. "Did I do that when you were shaking my shoulder?"

"You…you tried to shove me off with a ectoplasmic pulse of sorts. It was actually really brilliant, how you did it." He sounded like himself now, and he beamed at Danny. "We'll have to try to replicate that at some point. It'd be an amazing technique to use in hand-to-hand combat and—"

"Dad." Danny's eyes were still on the burn, and he raised his hand, which was glowing a soft, faint blue. "May…may I…?"

His father seemed to sense that this wasn't the time to ramble about new moves for Danny to practice, and he nodded. Much to Danny's surprise, Dad grew quiet as he gently touched his fingertips to the wound. Instinct took over, and under his direction, the frigid energy slid over the burned skin like an ice cube on kitchen tile. It was a strange sensation, not entirely unpleasant, but it took a lot more energy than he anticipated. He could not hold out long.

"Wow," Dad breathed when Danny withdrew his hand. He rolled his wrist and examined the mostly-healed skin. "Where did you learn this?"

"Um…I didn't," Danny admitted. He'd just watched Sleetjaw and other clan-members of the Far Frozen, mostly. "Not really. I kinda just…" Spots suddenly raced across his vision, and he felt so lightheaded, he nearly face-planted into his dad's lap.

"Whoa there," Dad said, steadying him. Dark teal eyes scanned him from head to toe and back again in quick succession. "Will you be alright if I run to get you a glass of water really quick?"

Danny nodded weakly. His tongue felt like a desert, and his throat was sore from silent-screaming. He only vaguely felt Dad's weight leave the bed, and he concentrated on taking steady breaths as he tucked his head between his knees.

Dad crept in about twenty breaths later, knelt before him, and offered the water. After taking a few sips and deciding he wasn't about to throw it all up, Danny practically guzzled the rest down. Once he was done, he felt significantly less dizzy. _Hooray for freakish halfa metabolisms_, his exhausted mind snarked. Rubbing his finger along the edge of the glass, he muttered, "Thanks."

"It's no problem, Danny-boy."

He kept saying that. In what world was it _no problem_? "Dad..."

"Danny," his father sighed, "it is fine. Really. I shoulda known not to scare you like that."

"No, I am glad you woke me up," Danny assured. He placed his empty cup on the nightstand with a little more force than necessary. "It's me. I'm..." _Broken. Ruined. Scarred._ He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. "I'm the one who should be able to tell the difference between nightmares and reality."

"It's not always that easy, son." Dad placed a broad hand across his shoulders. That wasn't very comforting to Danny. He was sure to be paranoid for days to come. Already, he was worrying he wouldn't be able to break the habit of falling asleep during school. What if he did and ended up really hurting someone? What if—

"Did…you want to talk about it?"

That made Danny retreat from the sanctuary of his palms and look up at his father. He must have looked as startled as he felt because his dad backtracked and stuttered, "If—I can just…no, I bet you want to sleep. You need sleep. I'll let you sleep."

This might have been weird to both of them—stuff like this was Jazz or Mom's territory, and Danny rarely ever opened up, if at all—but the moment his dad rose to his feet, Danny felt the loss and just...

"No," Danny said, "No, it's—it's okay, Dad. I just…I thought I was being… attacked, and I shouldn't feel like that. Not...not here. Not now. Not with you guys. Everything was just going so well, you know?"

Dad did not speak for a moment. "Was this the first? Since the Shift?"

Danny nodded. "I guess I've been too tired to dream," he muttered. Snorting, he hugged his knees to his chest. "That's new. I didn't even realize. My nightmares aren't usually that considerate."

Dad caught the bitter tone in his voice. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"But it's nothing to be proud of either! It was as though I..."

He didn't go on. Couldn't. There weren't words enough to explain. Dad seemed to understand; he nodded and settled down beside Danny again. He didn't press him, as Jazz so often did, and the lack of pressure was an unexpected attack on the defensive walls he'd built around his emotions.

"I wasn't good enough," Danny finished.

"Oh, kiddo..."

"I'm a mess, Dad," he found himself saying. "I'm a _mess_."

Dad didn't deny it. He didn't try to convince him otherwise. At least, not outright. "I visit that Tower every night, too."

Danny peered up at his father through his sweaty bangs, shocked by the confession, and his father draped an arm over his shoulders.

Danny hadn't realized just how much he'd needed this until he was pressed up under his Dad's armpit. It reminded Danny of all the times Dad had dragged him down into the lab to see a new invention, every time they went out for ice cream or to the zoo or the park when he was little. It reminded him of simpler times. As he had grown older, the gesture had become embarrassing, and he'd evaded Dad's burly bear-arms whenever he could. It had just been another thing his peers teased him about.

But that was before.

They hadn't really talked much—not by Jazz's standards, anyway—and there wasn't hide or hair of any inspirational, emotional speeches. Neither Fenton men were by any means healed. He was still just as afraid of his memories of the past and his slippery grasp of the future, but in the present, he knew he wasn't alone.

By the time Dad unraveled his arm, Danny was just starting to doze off against his father's shoulder. The last thing Danny was aware of was Dad settling him back and whispering, "You're better than 'good enough,' Danno. Always have been."

* * *

**AN: **Jack was really tough here. In previous attempts to write this scene, he always ended up being too loquacious and preachy. That's Jazz's job, lol. I think I'm happy with the final product. I hope that you guys enjoyed! Danny and gang will be in school next chapter, for sure!

Apologies for any mistakes!

_Oz out._


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